


A Proper Lover

by civillove



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adult Themes, Canon Divergence, F/M, Mentions of Rape, strong sexual language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civillove/pseuds/civillove
Summary: A lowly kitchen maiden named Andrea Wintark gets swept up in the complicated kingship of Jon Snow. Despite her best judgement and the foreshadowing of danger, she can't find it within herself to pull away as her feelings grow stronger for him.--please read all notes!





	1. A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Set in season 7 but with a seriously f-ed up timeline. Some important things to note: Jon is King, this is BEFORE Jon leaves Winterfell to meet Dany and falls a little after 'The Battle of Bastards'. Sansa and Arya are at Winterfell but Bran is not. 
> 
> Title inspiration comes from a quote in 3x06 in which Ygritte says, "you're a proper lover, Jon Snow". 
> 
> Notes 2: This is just for fun ya'll! I actually ship a lot of people with Jon and just wanted to write an OC for fun. If it's not your cup of tea, don't read, though constructive criticism is always welcome! Please enjoy :) 
> 
> Notes 3: Finally, there are a decent amount of adult themes, foul sexual language and some uncomfortable things to read about in here. If any of the tags make you uncomfortable, please don't read.

                                                                     

Andrea Wintark has loved nothing but snow since she was a small girl. She’s never craved the kiss of Summer heat or the gentle rains that rejuvenated buds of flowers in bare grass. She’s lived in the North as long as she can remember—and even if she didn’t know the difference between North and South, East or West, she’d know that the cold has always had a place amongst her bones and running through her veins.

She sometimes remembers winters from her childhood more than her parent’s faces. She lost them early, her little sister too—gone from terrible strife, men trying to take their land, their home. She remembers her father pulling his sword, offering a smile, a comforting tilt of his lips. Pieces, the melting of snowflakes—almost like liquid slipping through her fingertips. That’s how she recalls that night. Running into the woods to hide, her mother screaming; an echo still present in her nightmares. She lost sight of her sister until Andrea saw her dragged from the house, half alive, dress torn and thighs caked with blood.

She closes her eyes against the memory, leaning along a countertop in a warm kitchen despite the stone walls and floor, despite the chill outside.

“You alright girl?” A kitchen maiden asks, a crotchety old hag by the name of Rose, causing Andrea to straighten her posture.

“Fine, just needed a moment.”

“Don’t need a slacker.” She grumbles, moving towards an iron pot over the hearth.

Andrea sighs but says nothing, running her fingers through her long locks. Her father always used to tease her that she looked nothing of the North, with her auburn hair and eyes the color of dying grass.

She lacks the harsh features, the roughness that places like Winterfell encompass. The thick black hair with the softest curls she’s ever seen, brown eyes like the soil of the earth, almost something she can fall into.

And alright, she’s thinking of _one_ person in the North but…other than him, other than the bastard of Winterfell— _King,_ she reminds herself, _King in the North_ ; those dark features are prevalent compared to her own.

Andrea tries not to think about how she’s ended up here; she’s luckier than most, quite more so than her family. The time between when she lost them and a few months ago often feel like fever dreams. She’s lived in random homes, shacks barely held together, the woods with broken trees as her only shelter. That’s when Ramsay Bolton’s men found her, took her to Winterfell.

She’s never believed in fate, the old gods or the new, if she had—she’d ask them why her parents had been made to suffer, why her sister who had never hurt anyone in her short life had been made to die so painfully. But fate, it seems, has been kind to Andrea.

Not soon after the Bolton’s men had dragged her from the woods, Winterfell had been taken back by the Starks and Jon Snow had been made King. She had always pledged herself to the North, so it was quite easy to do so vocally when Lady Sansa observed the servants left behind by Ramsay. Andrea had been delivering wine and ale to dinners, war meetings, and Lady Sansa’s chambers ever since.

It was not always a comfortable job but Winterfell was warm, safe and felt more like home than anything else did in a long time. Other than that, well, she couldn’t deny that sneaking looks at Jon Snow didn’t make the job a little more pleasant. He was beautiful in a way that shouldn’t have been fair. His curls often pulled away from his face into a small bun, scruff of a beard decorating his strong jawline. He was shorter than his men but he earned the respect of those around him, making him taller than most. He also knew how to wield a sword, something she’d been able to see at the battle against Ramsay—very briefly, but just enough. He was fluid with how he moved; patient, practiced, almost looked too easy. He swung like he’d tasted death, like it was still heavy on his tongue.

Her mother had told her once, or maybe it was in a dream, she’s not so sure anymore—that she should always fear the anger of a gentle man.

Andrea has never spoken to him, isn’t sure she’ll ever have a chance of a conversation but she’s seen enough of his eyes to know he speaks through them. He may still be a bastard but he’s got more honor and humility than most knights or kings.  

_Another example of the old gods and the new giving all to some and nothing to most._

She assumes as a bastard that his life has been nothing short of easy. He had lost, maybe, almost as much as she had. At least he still has his half-siblings and is _King_ in the North—a fortunate happenstance to fall into.

And despite everything he’s been through, she knew he was kind. More gentle than he probably should have been to rule but men elected him because he was fair, because he was strong. Because he’d die for them, unselfishly, if he had to.

If she was a queen she’s not sure if she could honestly say she’d do the same.

“Girl.” Rose interrupts her thoughts again.

“I have a name you know.”

“One I don’t care to remember, I got enough work round here to do.” She begins circling around the kitchen, cleaning up odds and ends of dinner preparation.

“Well, what is it? Don’t leave me in suspense.” Andrea addresses dryly, already knowing what it is she has to do.

“If you cleaned up as much as you squawked this place would be spotless in half the time.”

A soft laugh leaves her lips, retrieving a tray to put a cask of sweet Summer wine and a goblet on top. For an old bird she’s funny at least.

Andrea takes the tray with two hands and leaves the kitchen, walking down the dimly lit stone corridors towards Lady Sansa’s room—she usually requests wine around this time of night when she can’t sleep. She knew, as any other at Winterfell, what kind of terrible things Ramsay Bolton had been capable of. She wasn’t sure how Lady Sansa could sleep after ordeals like that—Andrea knows if it had been her she…would have pictured her sister, that dried blood on her thighs and once pretty face—and never be able to close her eyes again.

But the Lady of Winterfell was much stronger than some gave her credit for, much stronger than Andrea thought she could be.

She bites her lip as she turns a corner in the hallway, a draft causing a shiver to rake down her spine.

At least the Lady seemed to stop having nightmares that woke her up screaming. Andrea had been near her chambers one night, a moon or so ago, Jon rushing down the hall with Ser Davos and men at his heels. He burst into her room, ready to fight an assailant to come to realize that the only threat was in Sansa’s dreams, her memory, the man long gone and dead.

Jon had put his sword away and gently approached his sister to draw her into his arms before mumbling to Davos that ‘this was not a spectacle’. Andrea’s eyes went to the floor as the men were ushered out, door slamming closed behind them.

Sometimes when Andrea brought her wine she could tell Sansa was troubled, that quiet nightmares still plagued her thoughts—uncontrolled when she slept. But she never seems to seek Jon out again and he doesn’t come to visit her. Andrea can understand, perhaps, where the Lady of Winterfell is coming from…there are certain things that Jon as a man and as her brother shouldn’t know.

She wants to tell her that she’s unbelievably brave and that she admires her strength, her will to go on despite what she’d been through…but Andrea never quite finds the right words to do so. It isn’t her place to address her and she never wants to assume that she somehow understands what she’s experienced.

Andrea goes up a set of steps and pauses—a group of three men outside the dining hall, all equally drunk, and blocking the hallway towards Lady Sansa’s chambers. Her hands grip the tray; she has to walk past them to get to her destination.  

She continues forward, instantly catching the eye of one of the men. “Well, what do we have here? Gods have been kind to me to get such a gift in the middle of the night.”

Andrea doesn’t look at them but knows just from quick glances out of the corner of her eye that they all, for the most part, look the same—dressed in thick brown leather, some with armor, all a cup of ale in hand, beards scraggly and dirty with long greasy hair to match.

Another one of the men steps directly in her path, “Pretty,” He touches her then, none too gently either, fistful of her locks between his meaty fingers. “Think it matches the color of her cunt hair?”

“Sure it does.” The third one drawls, still leaning against the stone walls, unmoving until— “Let’s see if we can find out.”

“Unhand me.” She snaps, yanking herself out of the second man’s touch. “Leave me be, I’m taking wine to Lady Sansa.”

She hopes the name will help but it sounds weak even to her own ears. The men are not moved or convinced.

“And when she doesn’t get it from you she’ll call for someone else.”

The first man grabs at the sleeve of her dress, hard, and rips it. Her reaction is instant, though foolish. She spits at the man’s face in an attempt to get away. The second man is just as quick; he backhands her across the face and though it’s not hard enough for her to fall, she does stumble and drop the tray of wine.

The sound echoes off the walls, the goblet kicked aside as the third one steps forward and grabs her rough enough to bruise, pinning her back against the cold stone. The rock digs into her back and she knows she should be looking this man in the face, to somehow show him she’s not scared…even though it’s dripping icily into her veins.

For some reason, she can’t seem to stop staring at the wine on the ground—the red moving like it has a mind of its own, slithering snakelike towards the cracks in the stone.

“What the hell is going on?” A resounding voice asks, deep and rough in all the right places.

The weight off her is gone instantly and she turns to see Jon Snow walking towards them from down the hall, Ser Davos not far behind him.

Man one glances at man three before clearing his throat, “Just teaching this kitchen whore some manners, your Grace.”

Jon interrupts him mid-sentence; he’s not very loud but there’s an edge to his voice that demands respect. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Oh. It’s then Andrea realizes he’s speaking to _her_ and when she looks up, their eyes meet. She’s seen him from far away many times but seeing him this close is almost striking to the point that it makes her knees weak. He must have just come from outside; there’s still flecks of snow melting into his hair.

She nearly falls into how deep his eyes are—his jaw set, usual pouty lips pressed together into a firm line. He’s angry…and waiting for her to speak.

She inclines her head a little, reminds herself yet again that she’s speaking to the King. She can’t _look_ at him like that.

“I was requested by Lady Sansa to bring her wine but I was…” She glances at the three men, “Interrupted, your Grace.”

She’s not sure whether they expected her to be quiet but they’re clearly furious with her admission.

Man two grits out, “You bitch,” between his teeth and moves to strike her. She turns her head quickly, readying herself for the blow but…it never comes.

And that’s because Jon has caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. “You dare raise a hand to a woman under this roof.” There’s no question to his tone, face pinched with an emotion she can’t identify. Irritation mixed with something else, something deeper.

The man struggles in Jon’s grasp, barely controlled anger slipping into his voice. “No, of course not.”

“Your Grace.” Ser Davos corrects, speaking from behind Jon, “You’re speaking to your King.”

One of the other men visibly swallow, seeming to understand the implications.

Man two’s eyes haven’t left Jon’s face, the King’s gaze trained on him—a message clearly there with no other words spoken. _Make a move, I dare you._

“No, of course not,” Man two says again, “ _Your Grace.”_

Jon lets go of his wrist, turning to address his advisor. “Ser Davos, escort these men outside to Ghost…see that they feed him. He hasn’t had dinner yet.”

Davos nods once before the men begrudgingly walk behind him down the hall. _Ghost? Jon’s…direwolf?_ Her eyes follow their retreating backs, a question on the tip of her tongue. Andrea turns to look back at the King and realizes he’s asked her a question.

“Sorry?”

“I said, are you alright?”

They’re alone in this hallway. His shoulders are slightly more relaxed while he speaks to her— _no one else to watch him, he doesn’t feel observed._ She’s never thought of that before; how heavy his body must seem with eyes always on him.

“I’m alright,” She finally manages to say, “But your Grace…” She trails off. Andrea has heard, after all, the horror stories of Ramsay and his hounds; poor creatures. But surely…Ghost wouldn’t be the same.

Jon laughs suddenly, having followed her gaze. It’s short and gone as soon as it appears but the gentle crinkling to the corners of his eyes remain.

“Oh, no. Ghost won’t _eat_ them.” She lets out a slow breath of relief. “But he will scare them when they try to feed him; he’s not used to any hand but mine. Maybe next time they’ll think twice before they speak to any lady in this house.”

She’s not a Lady, but she appreciates the thought. “Thank you.” She whispers before sinking to the floor to clean the mess she’d made.

Some of the wine had soaked through the bottom of her dress, coloring the pale brown shade in an almost pretty way. She doesn’t expect Jon to stay past her thanking him, but he does and even more to her surprise he kneels to help her. She wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to but surely no one tells the King of the North what to do. And from what she knows of Jon Snow, he’ll do what he feels obligated to do.

She straightens the flipped tray and he sets the goblet on it. “I’m surprised you care about what happens to the men who attacked you.”

“Just felt sorry for the wolf is all.” She mumbles but then catches herself, pausing to pick up the pieces of the broken cask that had been holding the wine.

When she looks up at Jon’s face there’s a ghost of a smile there before his eyes wash over her face.

Then, “You’re bleeding.”

_What?_ Her tongue darts out to the corner of her mouth, a slight stinging greeting her in response and oh, her lip.

“It’s nothing, your Grace.” Andrea tells him as they stand. “I should get back to the kitchen, get wine for Lady Sansa. I hate to keep her waiting.”

“I’ll accompany you and bring it to her myself. Odds are she’s already angry with me about something,” He smiles again, light and gentle—like it might blow away with the slightest gust of wind. “Best direct her wrath towards me instead of you.”

Andrea feels the corners of her mouth pull up into a similar smile, the humor of his features infectious. She feels like it’s rare to see him like this; any time she delivers ale to dinner or a meeting his face is stoic, brooding even, cold as if carved from ice or stone. The only time he melts, his gaze softens, or a smile touches his lips is if he’s speaking to his sisters.

“If you insist.”

He follows her to the kitchen, very apparently insisting. Luckily, Rose isn’t there to give her any problems about another broken cask and how to do her duties. She sets the tray on the counter and tosses the cask aside, looking for more wine…except when she turns Jon already has some in his hands.

“That’s not the Summer wine, your Grace.” She tells him as he pours it into a cup.

“As long as it’s not ale she’ll be satisfied. Trust me.”

She does, of course, but that thought doesn’t leave her lips. She wouldn’t dare say that her faith in him runs far beyond a cup of wine.

“Thank you again.” Andrea tells him, not sure what else to say. Once again, she’s hyperaware that they’re alone and it’s almost as if she can feel the heat of his skin in this small space, in this cold stone kitchen with dying embers of the hearth whispering their goodbyes.

He takes a step towards her, her back straightening as she breathes in—he smells like leather and skin, a soft kiss of sweat. He’s suffocating, _no,_ intoxicating.

“Don’t forget your lip.” He tells her gently.

It doesn’t even hurt, not really, but it might bruise if she doesn’t take care of it. She hums softly, a slight head nod in his direction. Her guard is down and while Jon is a different type of King, she knows that she should probably acknowledge him in a proper manner.

Andrea crosses the kitchen, her fingers brushing over jars before she finds what she needs. She crushes violet and rose petals into a stone bowl with her hands, adding a hint of water before rubbing the flowers between her fingertips until a light sheen of oil releases against her skin. She can feel his eyes on her, he hasn’t left, observing her selection with a curious gaze.

“Violet and rose petals help with healing.” She says by way of explanation. “And they smell nice.”

She’s not sure what he’s waiting for and she’s not about to ask—his presence isn’t unwanted even though the heat from his body sometimes feels like it’s crawling under her skin. It sounds unpleasant but for some reason it’s not.

He’s always so busy, speaking on matters that need his immediate attention, as a King she’d expect nothing less. Maybe it’s just…nice to spend time around someone who doesn’t demand anything from him, no matter how small.

She touches her mouth, trying to gauge where the cut is without being able to see it. Jon takes another step forward, his hand slightly outstretched.

“Here, allow me…” He trails off; it doesn’t sound like a question but he _is_ asking her permission.

It’s in his eyes.

He doesn’t move until she nods her head, her own hand dropping from her face. There’s nothing hesitant about the way he touches her, deliberate in how his one hand cups her jaw while the other dips his fingers into the oily substance left behind by the flowers. Andrea can’t help the soft breath that leaves her mouth as he begins to brush the salve across her lower lip. A small smile plays with the corners of his mouth at her reaction and she feels heat kiss her cheekbones, making his touch feel even more like a burn on her skin.

He’s gentle in a way she doesn’t expect, in a way she didn’t know he was capable of. She figures that’s probably an unfair assumption, she doesn’t know him outside what he lets others see. She can’t imagine how exhausting that must be; a King must be dedicated to everyone and everything that was not themselves. Or, at least that’s how she imagines it is.

She’s heard stories, she’s seen a little with her own eyes—how sacrificing Jon Snow can be. He’d give anything for the people who follow him, depend on him; perhaps he’d even give his life.

The tenderness contrasted with the harshness of his reality is almost painful to think about and she winces a little. He instantly misreads her expression and softens his touch against her cheek and lip even further.

“Sorry.”

She almost wants to laugh because at this point his fingertips are practically feather light, barely felt. “It’s alright, your Grace. You’re doing me the favor.”

Jon runs his thumb along her cut once more before his hands fall from her face. “Is this something you discovered on your own? Through practice?” He taps the bowl before she picks it up to put it away.

“While I wish I could take credit, no. My mother taught me when I was young.” Andrea says, a smile touching her features.

“Was she a witch?” There’s no malice or judgement in how he says it, but she can hear the contemplation in his tone.

She knows he’s probably thinking about the Red Woman who claims to see unspeakable things in the fire, the woman Andrea saw at meetings even though her presence were always very brief. She used to watch Jon, carefully, before she was asked to leave Winterfell…as if she could somehow read his future like words on his skin. And perhaps she could.

“No,” Andrea says after a moment, “She just appreciated the old gods and the new and what the earth gave to her. She respected what she could learn from it. She was much better at it than I am though,” She smiles over her shoulder in Jon’s direction. “I just learn through doing, see what works and what causes a rash.”

A soft laugh rumbles in his chest before he leans against the table. A comfortable quiet settles over the space like an embrace, warm and nearly intimate—like they’ve been in one another’s company before.

“When did you lose her, your mother?” Her eyebrows draw together in a question _how?_ And he clarifies, “You can hear it in your voice.”

She takes a piece of plant from another one of the jars and plays with it between her fingers a moment, thoughtful. “When I was younger.” She says, not willing to divulge much more than that.

He nods once, seeming to understand he’s stepped over a line he was not invited to cross. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

A smile can cover up almost anything; that’s something her mother used to tell her. Almost. She shakes her head and splits the piece of plant in two, a gooey clear substance leaking from the cracks. She holds out her hand, wanting to reach for one of his.

“May I?”

His eyes dance with amusement and something else, curiosity maybe. “You’re not going to hex me, are you?”

She laughs, the sound echoing warmly, “I wouldn’t dare, your Grace.”

He pauses for a moment longer before allowing her to take his hand, turning it until his palm is exposed. “This usually grows in Westeros, somewhere much warmer, so we’re running low.”

She spreads the sticky substance from one end of the cracked plant along his hand, over a scar, thick and puckered pink.

_Probably one of the only ugly things about him._

“It’s supposed to heal scars.”

“And you wasted it on my palm?” Jon asks, voice warm. His fingers absentmindedly close on hers for a moment.

“It’s quite a nice hand, your Grace.” Andrea teases, pulling away from his touch.

His brown eyes flicker up to meet hers and she can tell that he doesn’t quite believe in the power of plants or their healing properties…but that he might want to, just a little, merely because _she_ does.

“Thank you,” He pauses, tilting his head a little. “Lady…”

Oh, he doesn’t know her name. Of course he doesn’t.

“Andrea, and I’m not a Lady.” She corrects gently.

Jon lets out a slow breath from his nose, straightening his back as his fingers play with the scar on his palm. She lets her thoughts wander to Lady Sansa, how she carries herself, her posture, her ability to take someone apart with her words, her long beautiful dresses that capture the eye and at the same time look like they weigh so heavily on her shoulders, an unspoken burden. Even Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island, so small in stature yet larger than life—braver than some grown men she’s known. Much alike Lady Arya, deadly, tells the stories of her age through her eyes. She finally thinks of Lady Stark, Catelyn, gone before her time but someone who never stopped fighting for the safety of her family with the viciousness of a mother wolf.

Andrea could not possibly be compared to such women.

“Titles matter, do they not?”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “They do,” He agrees, “I suppose I meant that you should be treated with the respect of a Lady.”

She stares at him for a moment, slightly taken back by his statement though…very touched at the same time. Jon steps towards her, a soft smile barely on his lips. For a moment she thinks it might be the trick of the light, shadows from the fireplace.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She whispers back, watching him pick up the cup of wine for Lady Sansa and then he’s gone.

Andrea lets out a soft sigh, running a hand over her face, fingers pausing along her jawline. She allows her eyes to close, recalls the warm pressured grip of his fingertips on her skin, melting into her pores. Becoming a part of her. His gentle brown eyes, the speckled hair of his beard along his chin and jaw. She wonders if it’d feel odd to kiss him, the scratchy, almost burly sensation against the skin of her face. Her mouth. She then wonders what it’d feel like elsewhere…her chest, her navel…between her thighs…

Her eyes snap open, her hand falling from her face, a soft red blush taking its place.

She can’t be thinking about Jon Snow, not just that but the _King in the North,_ this way—what could possibly come from it?

_Heartache,_ a voice supplies, _pain._

And she’s had enough of both to last her a lifetime.


	2. Matching Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect comments and kudos already, honestly, thank you so much and hope ya'll continue to enjoy!

She hasn’t seen him in weeks.

Or well, she supposes that isn’t completely true. She’s _seen_ him, she just hasn’t spoken to him since that night in the kitchen. It feels far enough away that it could be a dream but instead of it being with her when she closes her eyes, it’s what stays with her while she lies awake. If anything, that’s how she knows it was real.

Andrea doesn’t know what she expects, she’s not about to request time with the King when there are more important things to be concerned about. It’s not like Jon has made special attempts to see her, either. There’s no reason to. It was happenstance that their paths crossed—an instant, a moment, and Jon Snow had been kind to her when she needed. It’s not that she isn’t grateful, she is, but she can’t stop herself from wanting more. She can’t quiet a voice in the back of her mind that whispers expectations of him checking up on her, that he thinks about her at _all—_

She squeaks as she blocks an oncoming stroke of a wooden sword with one of her own…but just barely.

“You’re thinking about him again.”

Andrea takes a step back in the mud, pulling her dress up a little so she doesn’t trip on it. It’s probably not the best idea to practice in _this_ of all things, but she doesn’t have many clothes. She’s never been much of a seamstress, so she has three dresses: one that’s still stained at the bottom from Lady Sansa’s wine, a sky blue one that reminds her of a dress her mother used to wear and this one that she’s reserved for taking the brunt of being outside with Leo. It’s torn at some parts, muddy and a little lopsided—kind of like how she’s faring with swinging her sword today.

She needs to remember to start wearing a heavier cloak, the cold settling deep in her bones, creating a stichwork of ice in her lungs. Andrea can catch her death out here, unprotected from the ice and snow but having on multiple layers doesn’t help with her balance or agility.

“I am not.” She argues back, her cheeks tinting pink and betraying how she feels instantly. She _is_ a bit distracted.

She met Leonard Lasko when Lady Mormont pledged her sixty-two men to Jon Snow’s cause in taking back Winterfell. A few men stayed while others went back to Bear Island; Leo was kind and patient and never tried to grab her ass when she delivered ale to dinners, he even apologized for other men. They began talking and one thing led to another; it was nice to have a friend—she can’t remember the last time in which she had one since she was little, since she lost her sister.

It also doesn’t hurt that Leo is willing to teach her simple swordsmanship, how to carry her body or perhaps throw a punch. It’ll get her out of situations that Jon Snow had needed to rescue her out of.

Maybe it’ll save her life so she won’t end up like the people she’s lost.

She probably shouldn’t have told him about Jon but at the time she was unable to help it. Leo is the only person she talks to, the only one she confides in, which included what had transpired between her and the King in the North. First Leo hadn’t believed her, then eventually he told her not to have childish romantic notions about Jon Snow.

Andrea doesn’t, she knows better than that, but she can’t deny that the interaction, though small, is important to her.

Leo rolls his brown eyes, drawing his sword back. It’s not hard to see past the wall she’s trying to put up. “You’re favoring your right side and you’re not paying attention. I threw the same move at you twice and both times you missed.”

She sighs, running a hand through her tangled hair. “I want to stop working with wooden swords.”

He laughs, his head tilting back a little. She can see his warm breath fog into the cold winter air, disappearing into the sky. “If we were working with real swords you would have definitely lost your nose by now. Or have a few cuts on your cheeks.”

She smacks his leg with her wooden sword. “Stop going for my face then.”

Leo grins, grabbing her sword and takes it effortlessly from her hand. “Stop making it so easy.” She tries to reach for it but he moves it quickly so she can’t. “You’re distracted; makes for terrible swordsmanship.” He pauses a moment, his eyes tracing over her. “All because Jon hasn’t graced you with his presence twice?”  

Andrea looks around and says a little through her teeth, “Leo, that’s your _King.”_

“King Jon.” Leo says dryly. “ _King._ At the end of the day he’s still a bastard and just a man like everyone else.”

She sighs and runs her hands down the front of her dress, smoothing out wrinkles to distract herself from answering his question. She knows that Leo holds Jon in high regard, much like other Northern alliances, so she’s not sure where this sudden attitude is coming from.

“I thought you liked him,” She says after a moment. Andrea doesn’t expect Jon to make time for her and she doesn’t expect Leo to understand how she feels…even though she thought he’d be a little more empathetic.

Leo throws the wooden swords aside and takes his own real sword from his sheath, handing it to her at the hilt. “I do,” He says and his tone is genuine. He shakes his head, short brown hair tussled about in the Northern breeze. “I just don’t like that he’s coming between you and your concentration. You asked me to help you, which doesn’t work if you’re not here with me.”

Andrea glances at the dark metal and tries to take it with both hands. It’s far heavier than she thought it’d be and it’s clearly not made for her height or weight but it feels good between her fingertips. She doesn’t try to swing it, not yet, but enjoys holding it—wonders what it’d be like to run someone through with it. She wonders if she could even do that if she tried…if the moment presented itself to her.

“I’m here with you.” Her eyes meet his, voice laced with promise.

Andrea wants to tell him that this will go away soon, her thoughts will eventually wander to something other than Jon Snow. It’ll just take time…it’s clear that their interaction was nothing more than what it was on the surface, it’s _her_ fault for treading deeper into lingering touches and gazes.

“Are you?” Leo asks, his voice resembling falling snow—cold and light. He’s not waiting for her response, but instead he turns the sword quickly in her hands, so fast that she does something very stupid.

She tries to grab it by blade and he slices her palm as he draws it back. She hisses, yanking herself back from his touch.

“Andrea—”

“No,” She snaps, “That was uncalled for. I told you I was paying attention.”

“And yet you grabbed the wrong end of the blade.” He says slowly, putting his sword away.

Her other hand wraps around her palm, trying to stop the bleeding. It’s not a deep cut, it probably won’t even scar, but she feels betrayal lick at her nerve endings that he quickly took her lack of concentration and used it against her.

“Rea,” Leo soothes, using a nickname that she’s only ever heard from him, usually when he’s done something stupid and wants her forgiveness. He takes a step forward and draws her hands into his own, not allowing her to pull away again. “This is nothing compared to what could happen to you.”

His thumb presses against the cut on her palm, blood oozing past their fingers and dripping onto the white snow and mud at her feet. She winces, anger flaring hotly under her skin. He thinks she doesn’t understand pain? That she doesn’t understand what _could_ happen to her when she’s seen with her own eyes what happened to her family?

“The King in the North isn’t always going to be there to rescue you.” She wretches her hands away, a soft breath leaving her lips. “And neither will I.”

Leo walks away from her then and she doesn’t watch him to see where he’s going. She closes her eyes, tight against the onslaught of frustrated tears that want to press their way down her face. She lets out a slow breath through her nose, her cut throbbing against the palm of her hand, skin slick with blood.

She doesn’t _expect_ that Leo, Jon Snow or any man for that matter will just _be_ there to rescue her if she needs it. Andrea knows how on her own she really is, how she must learn to be there for herself because that’s the only guarantee she has.

She wants to be angry with Leo, but deep down she knows he’s right—she should have been concentrating.

But now all she can think about is that her and Jon Snow have matching ugly lines on the inside of their hands.

\--

She can’t sleep and it’s not for lack of trying, either. She’s somehow has too much on her mind and at the same time nothing at all—it’s maddening. Her fingers gather fabric into her hands as she frustratingly turns on her side, trying to find a comfortable position. She sighs and winces as the cut on her palm flairs angrily at being agitated.

When she does manage to slip into sleep, just briefly, the very same nightmare that’s been with her for years settles upon her form. It hugs her tight enough that she feels like she might choke, it smothers her until she jerks awake—gasping for breath. 

She finally sits up and throws the covers aside, pulling on a few layers to step outside.

It’s snowing again, big white flakes almost too thick to see through, consistent and encompassing. She walks along one of the upper landings, where archers would stand if the castle would come under attack. It’s quiet, one of her favorite things about snow, how it absorbs everything around her. All that’s left is her feet crunching into fallen flakes beneath her and the soft puffs of air leaving her lungs, turning into pale smoke in the cold night air.

Andrea pauses towards the center of the walkway, her fingers brushing along the snow resting on top of the stone. Her eyes cast glances over blankets of white that stretch beyond what she can see, dead trees scattered along the horizon, reaching into the sky with their bony limbs. The tips of her fingers quickly become numb, but it’s comforting in way that she can’t explain. It’s kind of like the sting of the cut on her hand—both things remind her that she’s still here, she’s alive while others aren’t so lucky.

There’s a soft shuffling coming up beside her, but before she can turn to see who it is, a pair of bright red eyes and a low dangerous growl make her jump.

“Ghost.” Jon says, his voice sounds odd echoing in such a quiet place. She barely notices him before the direwolf backs down, his white fur almost blending in perfectly with their surroundings. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

Andrea’s one hand falls to her chest, feeling her heart beat flutter underneath and lets out a soft breath, straightening her back. She’s a bit rattled, the direwolf is huge and menacing compared to a dog or even a regular wolf. She’s seen Ghost walk around Winterfell, usually tailing Jon, always watchful of his master. He’s a beautiful creature but she wasn’t expecting them, Jon especially.

When she doesn’t say anything, Jon reaches down and gently runs his hand over Ghost’s neck, tugging him back a little.

“He won’t hurt you, he’s just protective. I can send him off, if you like.”

She quickly shakes her head, “No, no.” She isn’t going to let him do that; besides, Ghost is quickly resembling a giant puppy since Andrea is no threat to his owner. He pants, red eyes consistently trained on Jon Snow, nuzzling his leg every so often when he’s not investigating the snow.

Andrea slowly reaches her hand towards the wolf, “He seems quite sweet.”

She watches Ghost for any sign that he might not want to be touched but Jon adds a soft, ‘It’s alright’, though she’s not sure if he’s talking to her or his wolf. Regardless, Ghost sniffs her hand and then allows her to pet him between his ears. She smiles, her fingers trailing through his thick white fur down along his neck before drawing her hand back.

“What are you doing out here?”

Her eyes look to his face and she finds herself tracing it with her gaze, drinking him in, as if she’s cupping his cheek and running her thumb over his cheekbone. He looks incredibly tired, preoccupied, his mind elsewhere even as he speaks to her. But even though he’s stressed he’s still so easily handsome, curls drawn back into a bun, heavy furs around his shoulders with the Stark wolf in leather on his chest.

“I could ask you the same thing, your Grace.”

He’s not expecting her to throw his words back at him, a hint of a smile teasing his lips as he turns to look out past Winterfell. “Couldn’t sleep, this is a good place to think.”

She would have to agree. Being up here in the cold, surrounded by snow and silence, it helps clear her head, to quiet the tangle of voices that seem to keep her up.

“What happened to your hand?” His voice interrupts her thoughts and she glances down to see her palm is exposed, his eyes following the dark, angry, red line.

“Oh…” She trails off a moment, her finger circling the edge of it. “A sword.” Jon raises an eyebrow, to which a soft laugh tumbles forth at his expression. She clarifies, “My friend Leo is part of the Bear Island men, he was trying to teach me how to defend myself.”

“He’s clearly not doing a very good job.” He’s not impressed and maybe he’s earned that right. She knows he’s a very talented swordsman. “Maybe you should have saved that healing plant for yourself.”

Andrea can’t help but grin at his joke, “In my opinion that plant was very well used,” She doesn’t ask for permission this time before taking his hand into her own, removing his glove. The scar isn’t as thick and angry as it once was, a light white line taking its place. “Even though you didn’t believe me.”

Jon pulls his hand back and puts his glove back on, “I believed that _you_ believed it.”

She shakes her head, sighing, _men can be so stubborn._ “This isn’t Leo’s fault,” Andrea motions to her palm, “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

If only she could tell him, and yet she wonders if he already knows. He seems to be able to read her or is just lucky in guessing. Regardless, she feels stripped bare in front of him, naked, like he can see right through her.

_He has to know._

Maybe he doesn’t—maybe he hasn’t been thinking of her as often as she’s been thinking of him.

Jon takes a step towards her, his hand falling to her waist. He’s firm with his actions, though gentle, always gentle. She allows him to position her, so if they were about to fight, she’d be very balanced.

“He needs to teach you how to find your center,” He lets her go, her body screaming at him to stay. “Once you do that, you’ll find it easier to concentrate.”

He can’t be serious—and suddenly she’s very glad _he’s_ not teaching her how to use a sword, she wouldn’t be able to focus to save her life. Not with his touch, his gaze, the scent of his skin and the easy roughness of his voice always there to distract her.

“I’ll try to remember that, your Grace.”

Jon tilts his head at her, almost uttering something but deciding against it. She wonders if he realizes that he says more than he intends with his eyes. His lips press together for a moment before speaking, “Leo…”

“Lasko,” She finishes for him.

He nods, “I’m afraid I don’t know him.”

Andrea smiles weakly, an almost bitter tone coloring her voice, “A King does not know the men who would die for him?”

She regrets the words almost as soon as they leave her mouth, Jon’s demeanor slightly changing at her implication. He straightens, jaw tightening, eyes slightly colder but just enough that she wants to turn away, to lower her gaze.

She thinks he’s going to yell or maybe dismiss her but to her surprise he does neither, “I know most of them. I’m working on all.”

Andrea swallows, wondering if she should apologize. Instead she says something else that bothers her, “Leo would die for you.”

She knows how obvious that is, that a pledged allegiance would fight and die for their King. That _loyalty_ is the entire point…but devotion sometimes feels like all it does is promise death. And she can’t pretend to be okay with that.

Jon watches her face as she thinks, speaking for her before she can explain herself, “You disapprove.” He’s not upset nor questioning her own loyalty to him or the North but instead he’s picking apart her emotions in an effort to understand them.

“Of dying?” Andrea asks, “Yes.” She’s known too much of death to ever think it was okay, even for a King.

He presses further, “Even for something you love?”

She’s not sure what he’s asking or what point he’s trying to make. Seems just as worse to die for something you loved compared to nothing, you’re still _dead._ She thinks of people she’s lost; her mother, her father, her sister—they died for nothing. And it wouldn’t have mattered more if they died because of love.

“Especially for something you love.” Andrea insists and maybe she sounds stubborn, maybe that’s not the answer Jon is searching for but part of her doesn’t care. She’s not about to change her opinion just because the King in the North is asking her.

That quiet visits them again, the same silence that settled over them in the kitchen that night. Comfortable, not expecting anything out of either of them.

The snow dies down a little, not falling as heavy as when she first came outside. She can’t help but steal a glance at the man beside her, how snow settles on him, on the fur of his cloak, in his dark hair, on his eyelashes. She wonders what he looks like when his hair is completely down, framing his face.

“And you?” He asks after a moment, breaking the silence as he turns to look at her. Ah, that’s right—she hasn’t shared why she’s outside. “I’m afraid to say I almost didn’t recognize you up here without being in some sort of trouble.”

Her eyes meet his, warm and brown. He’s teasing her, causing a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Sorry to disappoint.” She reaches down to pet Ghost’s ear before leaning against the stone wall. “Sleep escaped me as well.”

“My sister wasn’t requesting more wine, was she?” Jon asks, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. She wonders why he’s asking: as a concerned brother or because Lady Sansa requesting wine disrupts her sleeping schedule.

Andrea pauses, wondering if she should tell him. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, if anything she trusts him _too_ much—something he hasn’t earned but just naturally receives because of his caring eyes and gentle gaze. Because he’s her King but also because of something so much more than that.

Because of reasons she can’t explain but that she can _feel._

“I had a sister once, her name was Mia, she was taken from me when we both were young.” Jon turns his body to face her, his eyes searching hers. He says nothing and waits for her to continue; patient and open.

So she does.

“Men came into my house, killed my parents. I ran,” She wonders if it makes her sound like a coward, sometimes she feels like one. “I watched them drag Mia outside; they’d beaten her. Raped her.”

Jon closes his eyes a moment, letting out a soft controlled breath through his nose. She wonders if he’s thinking about Arya or Sansa.

“In my dreams I see her but I’m much closer, sometimes in the house, sometimes outside. But I watch them, I watch the men take turns. I hear her scream and cry.” Andrea bites her lip, “Sometimes she asks me for help but I can’t move. Sometimes she asks me _why.”_

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until his hand is moving to cup her face, his thumb running along her cheekbone to wipe tears away. Andrea isn’t strong enough to stop him, the warmth of his skin leaking through the heavy leather of his glove. She lets out a slow breath and closes her eyes; her face feels slightly frozen, snowflakes falling onto her cheeks and mixing with her grief.

It’s when she opens her eyes again and sees Jon Snow’s face so close to her own that she has to pull away, embarrassment weighing heavily on the charged intimacy between them. She hadn’t meant to be so exposed in front of him, so torn open, but something in his eyes told her that she could.

“I’m sorry, your Grace.” She clears her throat, his hand falling from her face.

“Jon,” He corrects her softly. Andrea raises her eyes to his, searching; he can’t mean that. But he holds her gaze and nods, “Please. And you have nothing to apologize for.”

She swallows, trying not to drown on implications of what this might mean but nods anyways.

“Jon.” She repeats, his name heavy on her tongue but it sounds nice, being able to say it out loud.

Andrea tears her gaze away from his face, sinking in his eyes, head underwater to the point where it’s hard for her to breathe. She wipes the tear tracks off her face and sniffles, Ghost stirring at their feet from her emotions.

“I should…I should sleep.” She says, not sure she’ll be able to but she can’t stay here. Not with him so close, not with his touch still engraved in her skin. “Don’t stay too long out here, it’s cold.”

Jon smiles, touched at her sentiment. “As you wish, Andrea.”

She begins to walk back inside, turning to look over her shoulder at Jon reaching down and petting Ghost, pressing a kiss between his ears. A smile finds its way onto her mouth and it doesn’t leave, even when she crawls into bed and wills sleep to take her.

When she dreams it’s of Jon Snow’s smile pressing against her skin and mouth before he kisses her.


	3. Honest Intentions

She doesn’t tell Leo this time—and maybe that’s a mistake because he’s quite good at reading her. He can tell something is off just by her expressions, the way she holds herself or how she says things. She wishes _she_ had that sort of transparency with people instead of always being the one available to see right through.

Everyone has their tells, even if it’s something small and almost unrecognizable. Jon says everything through his eyes…she wonders how often she gives away things like that or if it’s something else that tells her secrets. Leo is well guarded, stone almost, she has a hard time gauging how he feels…which she supposes is very purposeful on his part.

Still, it’s frustrating. There must be things he cares about other than fighting and teaching her swordsmanship.

“Would you _please_ get off the counter?” Andrea tuts for the third time, passing Leo with more water for stew that’s bubbling over the fire.

She’s gotten a late start today; she hadn’t realized that Rose was sick in bed until she wandered into the kitchen mid-day with nothing prepared for dinner. Andrea usually works during dinner pouring ale or wine, or personally assists Lady Sansa at night unless she’s requested otherwise—but she’s not the best cook. Unfortunately there’s not much of a choice, she has to try. Other kitchen maidens are preparing the dining tables, so at least that’s one less thing for her to worry about.

It’s nice that working during the night frees her up to train with Leo in the courtyard…which is exactly what she’d been doing before walking into this predicament.

“Where else could I annoy you this much?” Leo grins, picking up a small piece of bread from a tray.

Andrea smacks his hand before stepping behind him, cutting up an onion into small bits as quickly as she can. “I’m sure you’re quite capable of irritating me from many other places.” She mumbles, blowing a strand of her own hair from her face.

She straightens her back, her spine and neck popping before she rubs the muscle of her shoulder. She’s incredibly sore; just one downside of working the morning away with Leo. At least she was far more focused than last time, which was surprising, given what had happened between her and Jon last night.

She feels as if last night solidifies what she suspects about his feelings for her, or maybe she’s getting used speaking with him. Regardless, she isn’t making things up, just filling the gaps with what she wants. No, this is something new yet familiar in a way she can’t put her finger on.

Leo hops off the counter, finally, and rounds to where she’s standing, his hand falling on one of her shoulders. He squeezes, her eyes fluttering closed, her muscles spasming a little against the pressure. 

“I didn’t go too hard on you, did I?”

She shakes her head, a soft sigh leaving her lips. She _did_ end up on the ground a lot—but he hadn’t taken it easy on her and she appreciates that.

“No,” She offers a small smile, “Just sore is all. My back is definitely not happy with me today.”

He smiles back, his hand falling from her shoulder. “Keeping your balance is going to be one of the hardest things you learn.”

“You mean once I stop letting you push me onto the ground?” She teases, cutting a few more slices of onion to slide into the stew.

“Oh, you were _letting_ me?”

Andrea scrunches her nose, brushing her hands onto her dress. “After a while since I kept ending up there anyways.”

Leo successfully steals a piece of bread and dodges her throwing a rag at him. She winces after, her hand moving to her lower back for a moment.

“Don’t act like today was a complete failure. You did catch me off guard a few times.” Now he’s just trying to make her feel better.

She snorts out a laugh, “Right, you’re talking about the _one_ time I tripped you and you didn’t even fall!”

Leo shrugs, “If your reaction time was better, you could have stabbed me.”

“With a wooden sword.” She mumbles, stirring the stew. Sometimes Andrea feels like she’ll never make it to working with _actual_ swords…not without truly injuring herself. She knows that some people just _get_ it, that there are natural born fighters. Maybe she’s just not one of them.

She feels him come up behind her, gently resting his hands on her shoulders. It’s not about assessing her muscle pain this time, no, he’s…he slides his hands down her arms, squeezing as he goes.

“You’ll get better.” He promises, a shiver running own her spine as his breath brushes over her ear. “It’ll happen. You’re working harder at this than most men.”

She knows he’s comforting her, that it’s something he’s done before…but for some reason, it feels different this time. He’s pressed against her, his hands almost too warm by the fire, mouth and nose near her neck as he speaks. The fire crackles, making her jump and he pulls back from her, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Better not be that jumpy when you’re pouring stew.”

She groans, a few other kitchen maidens filing in to retrieve ale, boiled potatoes and bread for dinner. She can hear the dinner hall filling up, the loud conversations of men whooping and grunting lets her know that she has to get going.

He’s waiting for her to meet his eyes and eventually she does. But Leo, the _bastard_ that he is, can tell how much she was trying not to.

“You sure you’re alright?” He asks, his hand tipping her chin. He runs his thumb along the corner of her mouth and she smiles soft, nods. She knows what he’s doing, checking her cut from her first run in with Jon Snow. It’s healing quite nicely.

“I’m fine, just tired.” And sore, but that doesn’t seem important to mention again.

His hand falls from her face, eyes washing over her with a careful gaze. He can feel it, she knows he can, the wall she’s building up between them.

“Make sure you get some sleep. I want to teach you some blocking techniques tomorrow.”

She nods, doesn’t divulge that she’ll probably be Lady Sansa’s help tonight and she’ll have to stay awake and close in case she needs anything.

“I should get this strew out…you know how hungry men hate to be kept waiting.”

Andrea picks up the heavy pot of stew from the fire, careful not to burn herself before she sets it on the counter to cool. Leo is _still_ there, pausing, hesitating…a question on the tip of his tongue. He manages to ask before she makes it out of the kitchen, all because she can’t find the damn wooden serving spoon in time.

“Are you still caught up with him? King Snow?”

She pauses, closing her eyes a moment to think. She wants to tell Leo about last night, about running into Jon because both couldn’t sleep, about meeting Ghost, that she had told him about her family—things she rarely shared with anyone else. That he was _Jon_ to her, with permission, how he had cupped her face to comfort her, that his touch was something she needed but didn’t realize it until it was over.

No. She can’t tell him. These were her private and intimate feelings and hers alone. Andrea can’t bear to hear his thoughts on the matter because she knows what he will say.

“No,” She says after a moment, when she’s sure her voice won’t betray her.

Leo doesn’t believe her, she can see it in his eyes, the gentle pull of lips between his teeth as he thinks. But he’s not going to argue with her, at least not right now as she’s maneuvering a hot pot of stew into her arms.

“Good.” He says instead, “Because I don’t think you realize how dangerous it would be to be involved with him.”

She watches him leave, guilt weighing heavily on her ribcage. A soft sigh leaves her mouth and she pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s not sure how to understand the feeling of remorse as it stirs her stomach—is it for lying to Leo? For _wanting_ to get involved with Jon? Or is it for knowing that Leo is probably right and doing what she likes anyways?

She carries the stew out into the dining hall, glancing at the other kitchen maidens making their rounds. Her eyes fall to the table near the hearth, Jon taking a seat next to Lady Sansa, his eyes seeming to automatically find hers in the crowd.

Or worse, is the remorse she feels squeezing her windpipe from the fact that she doesn’t regret her actions at all?

\--

She usually doesn’t handle dinner service, other than the occasional ale. Andrea should really be giving Rose more credit, for an old bird she does a _lot._ She walks through the hall, pouring portions of soup, pausing every so often to adjust the iron pot in her hands. Men sometimes thank her and ironically the three men who harassed her what feels like ages ago don’t even lift their heads to _look_ at her. She can’t help the smile that tugs at the ends of her mouth—looks like Jon’s decision for them to feed Ghost had been a good one.

Andrea swears she can feel the King’s eyes on her as she moves throughout the rows of tables, grazing over her back, boring into her skin. But every time she looks at him, he’s talking with someone. She’s not sure what that means, that she feels like she can sense him, the energy between them almost palpable.

She pauses at the corner of the dining hall after making her rounds, ready to go back to the kitchen for the night when Lady Sansa waves her over, wanting her attention for more stew. She sighs, making her way towards the table that stands out amongst all the others—horizontally placed so all can see.

She wonders what Ned Stark looked like at this table; she’s only imagined him from stories but knows he was a great man just from the way Jon handles being King. Those who don’t want power are surely the only ones who deserve it.

She adjusts the pot once more to get a better grip on it and straightens her back. After this she can lie down for a little before Lady Sansa would need her again—though she wonders if that would do her sore muscles more damage than good.

“Thank you, Andrea.” The Lady of Winterfell says as she rounds the table to serve her from behind.

“Of course, my Lady.” She smiles softly and can’t stop her attention from wandering to Jon beside her.

She wants to speak to him, to say something, _anything._ Her tongue feels tied in her mouth, knotted behind her teeth. She wants to ask if he slept last night, how Ghost is faring today, if he wants more stew. Instead, nothing comes, and she leans forward to pour a spoonful into Lady Sansa’s bowl.

Between the awkward angle and balance of her weight as she holds the iron pot, her lower back spasms. Pain shoots hotly down her spine, almost seizing up her legs. She lets out a sharp gasp and tries to right herself, but there’s nothing for her to grab onto. Jon is suddenly there, his reflexes impressively fast, his one hand holding onto her arm while the other rests on her lower back.

She doesn’t spill anything or drop the pot on herself, or _worse,_ the King _—_ so there’s that.

“Are you alright?” Lady Sansa asks, gentle concern laced through her tone.

She winces, cheeks pink as she puts the pot of stew down on the table. Jon’s hand presses into the muscle of her lower back and she almost writhes away from his touch. Almost.

“I’m so sorry, your Grace.” She says quickly, realizing most of the attention of the dining hall is on them. Jon says that it’s alright, but Andrea is talking over him, embarrassment clawing at her, “I lost my balance.” She lies, smoothing out her dress. His touch disappears a moment later.

She picks up the pot and bows her head towards Jon and Lady Sansa, Arya glancing at her but too preoccupied with another conversation to give her a second thought.

“Apologies again, your Grace.”

She’s never walked so fast to the kitchen in her life. She sighs once she’s behind closed doors, putting the pot down for a final time. Her hand instantly reaches for her back, right at the base of her spine.

_Maybe I_ did _let Leo work me too hard today._

The door opens and closes, before, “At least you didn’t drop the pot on your foot.”

Andrea lets out a soft sigh mixed with a pained laugh, not turning her head to look at Jon. She can hear him approaching her, “Least it might distract me from this.” She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder.

She wonders if dinner is done or if he left to check on her. Regardless, warmth blooms in the bottom of her ribcage, filling her entire body up at the sight of him.

“A lot of pain from just losing your balance.” He tilts his head at her. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Well with all due respect I wasn’t trying very hard.”

Jon smiles, his hand hovering near where hers is resting on her back. “May I?”

She glances at his hand, a little wary, to which a laugh tumbles from his lips. “I have nothing but honorable intentions.”

She’s not sure whether she’s more relieved or disappointed at that admission. It’s not just that—she’s worried about pain…but nods her head anyways, her own hand falling away.

Jon lets his hand settle on her lower back, and at first, it’s quite unpleasant. He seems to be poking and prodding trying to _find_ something, but it feels like little shards of glass under her skin.

“Ouch.” She whispers, almost through her teeth.

“Hold on,” He tells her patiently before pushing, hard, on a spot with his fingertips.

And just like that the pain dissipates. She almost lets out a soft whine at the sensation, Jon moving his hand in practiced circles along her muscles. The pressure is just what she needs, the knot in her insides starts to unravel, the burning pain that had been traveling down her legs disappearing.

Andrea melts into his touch, nearly swaying on her feet. She allows her eyes to close as he continues, slow and purposeful along her lower back. She takes a deep breath into her lungs, picking up hints of leather and his skin, his hair; raw almost, earthy but comforting nonetheless. It’s intoxicating in a way that she almost feels her entire body succumb to his administrations. She manages to stop herself from resting her side against his chest.

He seems to understand her resistance the moment she thinks of it, because he takes another step towards her, closing the distance between them.

“It’s alright, lean into me.” His breath is warm and inviting against the shell of her ear and brushes over her neck like a soft kiss.

Andrea doesn’t try to resist after that, she leans into Jon’s chest, allowing her eyes to slip close again. He’s warm, chest firm—she can only imagine what he must look like underneath his leather, filled out in all the right places. A thrill travels through her body and rests in her stomach, butterflies as the realization of their position settles over her. She thinks about the stark difference between Jon and Leo in this moment, both having her in similar positions in a short amount of time. How suffocated she felt with Leo’s hands on her, regardless of him trying to comfort her, how she felt ready to crawl out of her skin.

And now, all she wants to do is fall into Jon’s touch, to stay as long as he’ll have her. Pressed against the King of the North in his home’s kitchen, the room big yet their intimacy making her feel like they’re in a smaller space.

“Thank you.” She manages to say after a moment, Jon still working his fingers against her back. “How did you know what to do?” Because while rubbing her back seems to make sense, he knew exactly where to press.

“I’ve fallen on the ground plenty of times,” He smiles. “Habit forming, I’m afraid.” Jon pauses a moment, like he’s considering the words carefully before they leave his mouth. “Didn’t Leo teach you how to block so you don’t end up on the ground as much?”

Andrea laughs gently, “Well, he did a little…it’s something we’re going to focus on tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m already not very good at it.” He hums, and her eyes trace his face for a moment. She senses… “You disapprove.”

He shrugs his one shoulder, the hand that’s not on her back touching her own, moving to splay her fingers so her palm is exposed. “I just think there are better ways to train that aren’t cutting you or injuring your back,” He runs his thumb over the scar on her skin.

She smiles, her fingers closing around his hand for a moment before letting go. The intention behind his words are foggy; is Jon saying that because he himself is an excellent swordsman? Or because he doesn’t like seeing her hurt? He must know that she can’t go through this completely unharmed, that injuries will be had and that she’ll struggle…but that just means she’s learning.

“He’s trying,” Andrea says after a moment. “It’s the sentiment that counts.”

Jon licks his lips, “It will until there comes a moment where you can’t properly defend yourself.”

His words rest heavily in the air, that meaning quite clear—if she doesn’t learn correctly, and one day if she must use what she’s taught, she could get hurt. Or worse. She hasn’t thought about it that way…but she _was_ learning from Leo, even at a slow pace. Wasn’t she?

He changes the subject, drawing her out of her thoughts. “It’ll come back after I stop,” Jon tilts his head a little so he can look at her face, her eyes finding his again. Oh, the pain, right…she’s almost forgotten about it. “You should sleep with coals from the fire along your back tonight, the bed warmer will do.”

She nods, “Might not get a lot of sleep tonight, I’m tending to Lady Sansa.”

He shakes his head, his hand moving up her back, almost absentminded in his movements—like it’s a natural progression for him to make. It almost feels like little bursts of energy, her breath catching in her throat.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Andrea wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to do that, that she understands she has duties to uphold here. That she doesn’t want to leave Lady Sansa unattended, but the words get lost under tongue.

She turns so she’s facing him, her body still resting against his own. Jon’s hand traces down her back, settling where it was before. She dares herself to place her hand on his chest, fingers against leather, following the engraved lines of the Stark emblem.

“Why?” Andrea can’t help but ask; why is he willing to do these things for her? Is it obvious? Is she missing his implications hidden between his words? She’s afraid of the answer—she’s afraid it’s not what she thinks or maybe more terrified that it is.

Jon says nothing and maybe he doesn’t have to because his gaze falls to her lips. She licks them automatically, his fingers pressing into her back to pull her closer. Her heart jumps into her throat, they’re practically breathing the same air—

The kitchen door bangs open, making Andrea jump and Jon turns to see who’s interrupted them, their hands gone from one another’s bodies…and she finds Leo standing there. Staring.

She swallows and looks away, can’t even try to meet his eyes. She should have just been honest with him.

“Yes?” Jon asks, irritation at being interrupted clearly coloring his tone. His pupils are blown, nearly lost in the brown of his eyes.

Leo clears his throat, shaking his head. “My apologies, your Grace. I was checking on Andrea.”

“I’m alright, Leo.” She says, straightening her back and shoulders as if it’ll help prove her point.

Recognition colors Jon’s face at the mention of Leo’s name but he seems to sense that now is not the time to address him about her training. Instead, he nods his head at him.

“I’ve heard good things about you; you seem like a very loyal man and I want to thank you for fighting for the North.”

She feels a soft smile tug at her mouth at Jon’s words; it’s no wonder why so many men hold him in high regard.

Leo nods but looks barely touched by the sentiment, “Thank you, your Grace.” It’s almost said through his teeth, like he _has_ to say it. She can feel his eyes on her and Jon glances between them, the tension settling on the room like a wet blanket, hugging everyone too tight.

He takes a step away from her, “I must check on my sister,” Before she can ask if he’s sure that she can skip her duties tonight, he nods his head at her. “Get some rest, take care of your back.” And passes Leo to leave.

Andrea isn’t sure what to say, her words getting caught in her throat. He stares at her a long moment, as if he’s waiting for her to say something.

“Can I explain?” She asks, her voice trembling.

He scoffs in response. She tries to take a step towards him but he instantly pulls away from her. He doesn’t want to hear her excuses or explanations—she’s lied to him.

She’s hurt him.

“Leo.” She tries again but he turns and leaves, the door closing behind him with an echoing thud.

And she’s left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It looks like this fic might be 11-15 chapters long, ish--still working on edits :)


	4. Emotions Laid Bare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please adhere to the rating!

Andrea knows Leo will probably want some space; so she gives that to him. One day passes, and then two, she’s waited in the courtyard for him, wooden sword ready—but he never shows. Three days turn into a week and by then she’s lost her temper. She understands that she’s lied to him, that she hurt him—they’re friends and she should have just _told_ him regardless of his response. But shouldn’t he also try to understand where she’s coming from? How conflicting her emotions have been?

She understands taking time for himself, to cool down, to work on _not_ being angry with her…but he seems to be avoiding her now and _that’s_ childish.

Maybe this all comes down to the fact that she should have known better to get involved with Jon Snow in the first place, but it’s too late to pull back, she’s in too deep.

Jon’s hands and mouth continuously fill her thoughts, even when she least expects it. His fingertips pressing into her back in soothing circles…but somehow traveling elsewhere: along her neck, cupping her breasts, sliding between her thighs. His lips brushing hers, kissing her deep until she can’t breathe, tongues battling for dominance.

It’s when she can’t stop thinking of him like _that_ she knows it’s a losing battle, she can’t pull away even though she should. Even though it’s the safer and probably smarter decision.

_You can, you just don’t want to,_ a voice whispers. She chews on her lower lip, clamping down until it’s quiet.

Andrea pulls her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders as she walks through the gates of Winterfell, her feet crunching through the snow. She breathes in deeply, ice sticking to the inside of her lungs and a shiver coursing down her spine as she lets the air out through her nose. It’s a beautiful day out, regardless of the frigid cold. The sun isn’t out, a slight grey fog of patchwork clouds in the sky—but she finds she prefers it that way, somehow easier for her to think.

She makes her way towards the woods, tugging her hood up to cover her ears as the wind blows. Andrea can’t find Leo anywhere, he’s clearly avoiding her…Winterfell _isn’t_ that big so coming out here to clear her mind seems like the next best thing. Maybe a break from him is what she needs even though she’s not thrilled about it. Her back is a lot better, the muscles calming after much needed heat and rest but she doesn’t want to get rusty. If Leo isn’t willing to _speak_ to her, let alone train with her, she’s going to have to do things on her own or find someone else prepared to help.

And those thoughts wander to Jon once again.

She’s been spending more time with him lately, on and off, usually in the kitchen late at night while she waits up for Lady Sansa or because neither of them can sleep. It’s a comforting feeling, that he seeks her out, even just to talk.

He tells her about the places he’s been, the things he’s seen, the mistakes he’s made. She tells him about what she remembers about her home, the food her mother used to make, and how her sister loved bears—misunderstood creatures for sure, seen as ferocious beasts but capable of giving so much love and affection towards their own young.

Jon listens to her, in a very different way than anyone else. He hangs on her words, asks her questions like he’s genuinely interested and smiles when she talks about Mia because he can sense how much she loves and misses her just from her voice.

Andrea lets out a soft sigh, pausing at the edge of the woods—there isn’t a sound, not one animal or a breeze rustling through the dead trees. She absently nudges a broken tree trunk with her foot, wondering if she could find her way back home, her old home, from here.

It’s been so long, she doesn’t even know if her house is still standing. She pictures the frame crumbled in on itself, rotted wood, snow living inside instead of people. Her parent’s bones are probably there, her sister’s too, buried beneath the earth from weather and time. 

Something solid bumps her in the back of her leg and when she turns around to see what it is, Ghost greets her by jumping. She laughs, the direwolf completely knocking her over and into the snow. She lands with a soft _oof,_ the wolf standing over top of her and licking her face. Snow manages to get into her hood and the longer she’s on the ground the more she feels the cold seep into the fabric, closer and closer to her skin.

“Ghost!” Jon scolds but there’s barely contained laughter lacing his tone. “Off.”

She sits up, brushing the snow off herself and ruffling the fur behind Ghost’s ears. “Don’t act like you didn’t tell him to do that.”

Jon offers his gloved hand to her, which she takes. He pulls her up off the ground, their hands momentarily linked between them. “I would never.”

A laugh leaves her lips, “Course not.”

Her eyes trace over his form, heavy leather and fur on his cloak. She wonders why he never wears a hood or at least has his hair down to frame his face…don’t his ears get cold? His nose and cheeks are gently kissed red, however. She wants to run her thumbs along his cheekbones, lean in to brush their noses together.

“How did you find me?”

Jon looks to Ghost, who’s rolling around in the snow, nearly blending in with the surroundings except for the bright red eyes. “Now that I _did_ use him for, I was looking for you.”

She tilts her head a little, confusion resting in her eyes. Did Lady Sansa need her? Did Leo ask Jon where she was? Was Rose not feeling her best…if she had to cook again she’s not quite she could put something together other than the stew from the other night.

“Is everything alright?”

He nods, his eyes glancing to the snow at their feet. She watches him carefully…is he nervous about something? Jon reaches inside his cloak and pulls out a small shape made from wood. He turns it in his hands a moment, his thumb running over a ridge before he hands it to her.

Her eyebrows crinkle together as she takes it from him, putting it her one palm before she recognizes what it is. Andrea’s mouth falls open, a breath catching in her throat as her heart starts to pound in her chest.

It’s a bear. It’s a bear carved out of wood.

“I had Ser Davos make this for you.” He says softly. She stares at it too long, her eyes glazing over with sudden tears. Her one hand covers her mouth as she listens to him, “I figured it was a nice way to remember your sister.”

She’s suddenly overwhelmed with emotions, thoughts and memories of Mia assaulting her senses. _Warmer days in the woods together, how the sun would filter through her auburn hair, gathering up together under a blanket by the fire at night, listening to mother’s stories. How Andrea used to take her hair and make haphazard braids that’d end up falling out anyways. How Mia would hug her so tight her ribs felt like they might break._

Andrea doesn’t remember the last thing she ever said to her. She can’t remember the last time she told her she loved her.

“’Drea,” He’s trying to get her attention, the nickname warm and affectionate on his tongue, something she’s never heard him use before. He’s worried his gift has made the wrong impression, that he’s upset her in a way he hadn’t intended.  

When she manages to look up at him, a tear slides down her cheek, a choked noise leaving her lips that sounds a lot like a sob. She doesn’t know what to say, if words will even suffice with how touched she is.

So she doesn’t speak at all.

Instead she moves, leans up on her toes and _kisses_ him. It’s quick and tender and not how she pictured the first time kissing Jon Snow going. He looks at her a moment, eyes tracing over her face before he cups her cheek and pulls her into another kiss. This time it’s deeper, his mouth memorizing hers, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her in place.

When she pulls back from him to breathe it’s a messy combination of tears and sniffles. Andrea wipes her face, Jon leaning forward to press a long kiss against her forehead before bringing her into his chest, hand resting on the crown of her head to anchor her to him.

“Thank you.” She chokes out into his neck, breathing him in, his skin warm and inviting.

He squeezes her once before nodding but says nothing, his hand moving to stroke her hair. They stay like that for a while, bodies pressed together, snow starting to fall around them.

“You’re shaking,” Jon tells her, tilting his head so he can try to catch her gaze.

Andrea wants to tell him that she’s fine, that she can’t tell whether it’s from her emotions or because it’s cold but either way another shiver travels down her spine. His hands grasp her shoulders, thumbs circling her collarbone even through her layers of fabric. Her throat burns with unshed tears, with the effort of holding back sobs, but she can’t fall apart like that. It’s not fair to Jon even though she knows he wouldn’t mind; he knows what it’s like to have a sibling and lose them. She doesn’t want him to think that his gift wasn’t a wonderfully kind idea.

“Come on, let’s head back inside.”

She nods and allows him to wrap an arm around her waist as they walk to guide her through the snow, Ghost taking the lead. Andrea can’t take her eyes off the little wooden bear in her hands.

Mia would have loved it.

\--

There’s whispers and stolen glances when they walk back into Winterfell together, Jon’s arm still around her. He doesn’t let her go, even as they pass Lady Sansa on the way to his chambers. She distantly wonders what the repercussions will be for this, what kind of conversations he’s going to have now, if her known presence is going to be a problem. Her eyes don’t stray from the gift in her hands, even as he stands her in front of the hearth and whispers to Ser Davos right outside his doors that he doesn’t want to be disturbed before closing them.

Andrea sets the bear down on the table near Jon’s bed and takes off her gloves, watching him start a fire. He then turns to her and his hands hesitate near her arms, fingers brushing over her cloak.

“Probably should take this off.”

He’s not wrong, the fabric is damp, she can feel it rest heavily on her shoulders. She nods and allows him to unclasp it before he lays it over the back of a chair. His gloves and cloak go next, his hand running through her long hair, playing with the strands at the ends.

“Think your hair has ice in it.” He teases, a soft smile toying with the corners of his mouth.

Andrea allows herself to smile, doesn’t fight it even though grief is still sitting heavily in her chest, right under her ribs. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” She clears her throat, trying again. “Thank you for the gift. I don’t…want you to think I didn’t like it.”

Jon’s fingers trace her jawline, thumb pausing on her lower lip a moment. “Unless you kiss people when you’re angry,” A soft laugh leaves her chest, “I’d suspect it was taken well.”

“I just didn’t mean to…” She trails off, shaking her head, her eyes falling to the floor. She licks her lips, wants to explain somehow.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to because Jon’s hand moves to rest on the back of her neck, squeezing gently until she meets his eyes again. “It’s alright. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Andrea smiles, leans forward until her forehead is resting against his nose and lips. She stays there for a moment, her hands against the leather on his chest, body trembling—but that’s probably because his mouth moves to kiss her temple, then directly under her ear, before her neck. Its feather light, not hinting at anything more, yet it seems to set off a wildfire in her veins.

Their eyes meet and he brushes their lips together, teasing.

“Not going to freeze to death on me, are you?” He smirks against her mouth in an incredibly frustrating way.

“Not if you keep doing that.” Andrea whispers back, nipping at his lower lip.

_This_ time, Jon shudders and she can’t help the satisfied thrill that runs through her body. He kisses her again, taking his time, backing her up into the table. She lifts herself to sit on the edge, his body pressing itself between her legs. Andrea wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, kissing him greedily, like she might not get another chance again once she leaves this room.

His hands fall to the small of her back, gathering fabric between his fingertips. She finds herself pulling at the leather that’s strapped and buckled to his chest, yanking until some of it comes free. Jon shrugs it off, tossing it to the side. She pulls back, panting softly, going to kiss his shoulder blades but caught off guard by the scars on his chest.

Andrea traces one with her fingers, the crescent moon mark right over his heart. He tenses, she can feel it under her fingertips. Before he can pull away, she leans forward and presses a kiss to it before kissing him again, her hands falling to his small waist. She doesn’t ask him what’s happened and he seems relieved that she doesn’t prod; licking into her mouth, her fingers digging into his skin.

A soft moan leaves his lips, empties into her, which lights a fire between her thighs. She aches for him, wants him to touch her everywhere all at once—she finally has to encourage his hands to tear at her dress. She doesn’t care that she only has a few of them, she just wants the fabric _off._ He cups her one breast when they’re exposed, his thumb working circles over her nipple.

“Jon,” She sighs out, the first time his name has ever left her lips like this. “Please.”

Her hips stutter at the sensation, wanting friction. Her hand wanders down between them, tracing the outline of his cock through his trousers. A groan hisses between his teeth, her thumb pressing along his length. She then tugs the strings so there’s no fabric left between them, her dress finally removed, lying in pathetic strips on the table.

Jon wraps an arm around her, almost tugging her off the table, the furniture skidding loudly across the floor as he pulls her towards him. She laughs a little, can’t help it, a smile matching her response as he kisses her again. She reaches down to grasp him, lining them up perfectly, groaning as he slides inside of her.

He doesn’t move for a moment, adjusting, _feeling_ one another completely.

Andrea wraps her legs around him, a soft whine tearing at her throat. She wants him to move, he _needs_ to move. She rolls her hips, fingernails digging into his back, his hands working their way through her hair. He takes her initiative and thrusts into her, their hips beginning a nice rhythm that have them grasping onto one another like anchors.  

Heat blooms in her chest and leaves petals throughout body, her eyes slipping closed as his lips move to her neck again. He kisses her pulse point, his hips picking up a pace, gentle groans echoing out against her throat.

They quickly become one in their movements, a dull ache beginning inside her, a frustrated whine sounding as she needs more. More, _more._ Jon understands her without speaking, pulling her even closer, angling his hips so he goes _deeper,_ hitting that very same spot over and over.

A gasp claws out of her lungs, her entire body shuddering. She’s close to having that feeling swallow her up completely, like a wave of water crashing down, hard, against her chest. He pulls his head back so he can look at her, their eyes meeting and not straying from that as he rolls his hips.

Their lips brush, teasing kisses, not quite there but just enough. He nips at her upper lip and when his hand moves to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone like he’s trying to remember every part of her in this moment, that’s when she lets herself go.

Her eyes squeeze shut, her body wracking with shudders, soft murmurs leaving her lips over and over—she pushes him over his edge and he finishes with one more thrust inside of her. His body rests heavily against hers, skin kissed with sweat, his lips brushing over her shoulder as she kisses his collarbone.

Andrea brings her one hand up and tangles her fingers in his hair, undoes the bun that rests at the crown of his head and strokes through his strands. He’s beautiful, of course, curls framing his face just as she thought they would.

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth when he pulls back, sliding out of her and almost making her feel hollow inside, missing him already. He grabs a fur from his bed, wrapping it around her shoulders before taking a few others and lying them down in front of the fire.

She gets up off the table and joins him on the floor, her cheeks kissed pink. She’s glowing, she has to be, she can feel it when she smiles. “Won’t you be cold?”

He gets hold of the fur that’s around her and tugs so she’s straddling his legs, “We’re sharing this; nothing keeps you warm quite like body heat.”

They meet again in a soft kiss, before Jon wraps his arms around her and lies them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Conflicting Sentiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter-- next one will be longer :) there's just not a good way to separate fic sometimes. Thanks to everyone who is leaving comments and kudos!

Sunlight tickles Andrea’s nose, pulling her out of her slumber. A soft noise leaves her lips and she shifts, turning to press her face into her pillow. Except…wait, her nose dips into firm and warm, the distinct scent of leather and skin…

Skin.

It’s then she remembers last night, a shuddering thrill working down her spine. That would explain why she’s naked and has a terrible crick in her neck from being on the floor all night. She’s surprised her back isn’t killing her, though it appears she’s done most of her sleeping on her stomach, between Jon Snow’s legs, head on his chest.

A smile blooms on her face, something she hides in his collarbone. The fire faded out sometime in the night, but she’s never felt more warm. She shifts again, trying to lift herself to grab a fur to wrap around her nakedness…she should try and leave without waking him, shouldn’t she?

“You keep moving like that,” Jon says, his voice gruff with sleep. “We’re going to have a problem.”

Andrea laughs gently, turning a little to look at him. His eyes are still closed, his curls surrounding his head like a halo—he’s absolutely beautiful. She watches him a moment, her hand coming up to trace his jawline because she can; is this what he looks like as he sleeps? His lips are slightly parted, slow calming breaths in and out, like he might fall back asleep at any moment. Gorgeous…and so unfair.

“Did you bring your sword to bed last night?” She asks cheekily, moving her thigh so it slides against his half-hard cock.

A stifled groan leaves his lips and he playfully smacks her ass, making her jump. “Do not tease me, I am your King.” He says but there’s no authority in his voice. Jon opens his eyes as she rests her chin on his chest, his hand running through her tangled locks and pushing them away from her face. “Were you trying to run off?”

“I was trying not to wake you.”

His thumb brushes over her temple, “I’ve been awake for a while.”

She rolls her hips, brushing his cock again. “Clearly.” She grins.

He sighs and looks to the ceiling before rolling them in a rush, a squeaking giggle leaving her lips as her back ends up against the furs. Jon settles on top of her, creating a cage with his body, smiling against her mouth. Andrea reaches up and plays with a few of his curls before tucking a bunch behind his ear.

“Did you sleep well?”

She nods, her hand working to trace the scruff on his jawline, her thumb pressing against his lower lip. “Quite well for being on the floor.”

Andrea’s thoughts travel to the night before, she wonders if anyone heard them, if anyone cared. A lot of Jon’s men, the kitchen maidens, other people working in the ins and outs of Winterfell had saw them walk in together, how she’d been taken to his room and hadn’t left for the night—his arm around her, his touch gentle yet confident. What will people think of her? What will people think of _him_ as their King?

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, smoothing a finger over the crinkles on her forehead.

Her eyes find his, searching the depths of brown for a moment. “Aren’t you concerned about what people will say?”

He shakes his head once, his hand moving to cup her cheek, thumb stroking her cheekbone. “I’m afraid that happens either way.”

Andrea treads carefully, she doesn’t want to bring this up in case it shatters the perfect illusion of what’s going on between them. If it breaks she’s not sure she’ll be able to pick up the pieces and put them back together…but it has been weighing on her mind since she first told Leo about her interactions with Jon Snow. She can’t pretend she isn’t worried about it, that this might disintegrate before her eyes, afraid that reality will catch up with them both.

“But I’m lowborn.” Barely a whisper from her mouth.

Jon nods but presses a kiss to her upper lip before her lower one. “And I’m still a bastard. Becoming King of the North doesn’t change that.”

She supposes she hadn’t thought about it like that…but wasn’t the point of being a King to make alliances, usually through marriage? She knows she’s getting ahead of herself but…investing in this could completely destroy her in more ways than one. Isn’t that what Leo alluded to? Gods, she needs to stop thinking about _Leo_ right now.

But she can’t help but be afraid, to fall too deep and lose him before she’s ever really had him.

“You’re incredibly good at worrying.” He teases her, an unexpected laugh tumbling from her. “Lot better than making stew.”

Her mouth opens wide at the playful insult but before she has a chance to retaliate he’s kissing her again, swallowing her words. She sighs into the kiss, tilting her a head a little to deepen it, giving herself over to him. He positions himself a little more purposely between her legs and she opens them to accommodate him. His cock is pressing against the inside of her thigh, her hand traveling down Jon’s back, fingernails scratching at his skin. A muffled moan against his lips, a desperate ache building in her chest and working lower—

And then a knock at the door.

Jon lifts his head, panting slightly. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.” He yells over his shoulder. Andrea lifts herself up a little, her mouth finding his neck. She licks over his pulse point, a shudder coursing down his spine in response.

“I’m sorry, your Grace, but I’m afraid the matter is quite urgent.” Ser Davos replies, his voice muffled by the wood.

Andrea sighs as Jon looks down at her, her head falling back onto the furs. She squeezes his arms and nods gently, she knows he has to go. He presses a kiss to her jawline before pulling himself away, standing to put his clothes on. She turns over on her stomach and watches him a moment, the heat inside of her dying quickly, like water being thrown on sizzling embers in a fire.

He offers a hand to her and she takes it to stand, her legs a little wobbly. Once she gains some balance, she touches her dress that is still on the table…though it looks worse for wear, ripped in places as she remembers his hands all over her last night.

“You tore my dress.” She says, amusement on her tongue.

Jon laughs shortly. “From what I remember, you encouraged that.” He buckles the leather onto his chest.

She pulls on what she can, holding her dress closed to conceal her breasts and when she’s covered up as well as she can be, Jon opens the door to let Ser Davos in. He nods his head at her, “Lady Andrea,” and wants to correct him but figures it’d take too much time to do so. Regardless, she knows he’s calling her that out of the respect Jon wants for her, so she simply nods her head.

“Good morning, Ser Davos.”

“Sorry for the interruption, I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”

Andrea touches her cloak that is still resting on the back of a chair—it’s still damp. She supposes she should leave it here until it’s dry, it’ll be useless to her until then. She does pick up the wooden bear between her hands and smiles towards Ser Davos.

“Beautiful craftsmanship.” She tells him in way of thanks.

He nods his head, a smile teasing the ends of his mouth. He’s pleased, obviously proud of the work he can do with his hands. “Thank you M’lady.”

She glances between the two men, knowing they have business to discuss that she’s probably not privy to. “I should get going.”

Jon picks up a fur off the ground and wraps it around her shoulders, offering a small apologetic smile. “I’ll find you later.”

Andrea nods, her hand squeezing the wooden bear between her fingertips. “You know where I’ll be.” She offers before taking her leave.

\--

Andrea walks back to her room and lays the fur on her bed before examining her dress. She might be able to sew it or find someone who can…probably the better choice since she’s never been a great seamstress. She puts the bear on the table next to her bed and has a short bath, sinking into the tub and allowing the warm water to unravel some tight muscles in her back and shoulders. 

Her thoughts wander to things Jon said as she soaks, bringing her knees up to her chest so she can rest her chin there. He’s still a bastard as she’s a lowborn…does that mean they’re practically equal or does it not matter because he’s King? She closes her eyes—Jon’s right, she worries too much.

She wishes she could talk to Leo about this. Before everything happened, she thought he was her friend. He listened to her so many times about anything that had ever crossed her mind and now he wouldn’t even be in the same room with her. He has to be willing to forgive her eventually…right?

Andrea groans and lifts herself from the tub, drying herself off before pulling on her blue dress, the only thing she has that isn’t stained or torn. She tugs her still wet hair into a long braid, making her way towards the kitchen. She pauses down the hall as she sees Leo and he pushes the door open to the kitchen before heading inside.

She quickly follows him, the door echoing closed with a thud. Kitchen maidens turn to look at her, quiet whisperings following as Leo’s eyes find hers. He’s cornered, however, will _have_ to talk with her now. No more avoiding it.

She clears her throat, the maidens seeming to get the idea that she’d like some space. They leave without another word. Andrea briefly wonders if Rose is feeling any better, though she supposes it’s too early to be preparing for a meal anyways.

Andrea swallows, a slow breath leaving her lungs. Of course, now that she has him alone, she has no idea what to say to him—too many things piling up from too much time of not speaking to him.

“You can’t avoid me forever.” She eventually says.

Leo…he looks tired, incredibly tired, like he’s been drained from the inside out. Concern blooms in her chest; she doesn’t realize how much she’s missed him until he’s standing right in front of her.

He shrugs his one shoulder. He’s not wearing armor today and he doesn’t have his sword. He’s dressed in a simple gray shirt with a leather covering to keep him warm. “It’s been working out so far.”

She takes a step towards him and relief claws at her insides that he doesn’t mimic a step back to keep distance between them. “I understand you’re upset, I…I shouldn’t have lied to you for how I was feeling about Jon.”

He scoffs at her, “Don’t you mean your _King?”_ He sneers, his pointed tone on the lack of formalities not lost on her. She swallows, her hands playing with a string on her dress. Before she can say anything else, Leo adds, “You don’t understand anything.”

He’s concerned about her safety, he’s mentioned as much to her before—that she might not understand how dangerous it is to be with Jon Snow. She also knows that it hurts to be lied to, that he might feel betrayed. But what else doesn’t she understand?

“Then explain it to me, please. I can’t stand being apart any longer.”

“Ah, yes,” He rounds the table, moving to walk past her, “I’m sure training on your own has been such a burden for you.”

Andrea grabs onto his arm and tugs so he won’t leave. He wretches away from her like he’s been burned, her hands still outstretched towards him before slowly falling. “That’s not what I meant, training has been the last thing on my mind!” Why was he acting this way? “I _miss_ you. You’re…you’re my friend, the only one I have.”

He stares at her for a long moment, his jaw working before he leans in, his voice quiet and still even though the words coming from his mouth are as sharp as swords, “Tell me…what was it?” He pauses, “Rescuing you from drunks? Or no, maybe it was his hands massaging your back…” He tilts his head, “Did you bond over dead siblings or did he give you some sort of speech about what it means to be King of the North?”

She doesn’t understand where he’s going with this, her eyes boring into his own, not moving even though he advances on her and crouches her space.

“I want to know what it was. What did he say to you that made you change your position from kitchen maid into Jon Snow’s whore?”

Andrea’s hand moves before she can stop herself, slapping Leo right across his face, his head snapping to the left at the force of it. Thick emotion chokes her throat, making it hard for her to swallow. She refuses to let him see the tears that fill her eyes at his implication…how could he _think_ that of her?

He lets out a calm breath through his nose, turning his head back to look at her. His cheek is red from her palm, eyes ablaze and _angry._ She braces herself, thinks he might hit her back but he doesn’t. Instead he flips a tray on the table next to her, wine and glasses crashing onto the floor, echoing onto the walls before he leaves in a rush.

Her heart slams in her chest, her hand settling over her heart as she tries to control her breathing. Andrea squeezes her eyes shut, the tears finally coming and maneuvering their way down her cheeks. She has to lean against the table to stop her knees from giving out and eventually she hears the maidens finding their way back inside the kitchen.

She sniffles and wipes her face, helping them clean up the mess.

It just goes to show that no matter how much time passes, she still doesn’t know how to stop herself from losing people she cares about.


	6. A Threat Nears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please adhere to rating!

Andrea helps Rose with dinner, glad to see her back in the kitchen where she belongs. Preparing for a meal keeps her mind off things she’d rather not be thinking about and even better, she keeps the gossiping in the kitchen to a minimum. At one point Rose even tells the kitchen maidens to ‘stop clucking around here like a bunch of hens in heat’ because they all have jobs to do and talking isn’t one of them.

She delivers ale in the dining hall, but she can’t find it in herself to meet Jon’s eyes from across the room, even though she can _feel_ him watching her. Guilt rests so heavily in her windpipe, suffocating, and has half a mind to hide somewhere for the night where he can’t find her. She doesn’t want to talk and she doesn’t want to try and explain how she’s feeling even though that would probably help.

Her emotions feel complicated and messy, a tangled weave she keeps getting caught in. Every time she thinks she might understand, something else knocks her off balance. She almost misses the simplicity of how she was before this all started—at least she knew where she stood, how to feel, even though those emotions were dull they were _safe._

She sighs as she cleans up the kitchen with Rose, Ser Davos making his way into the room a few moments later. He nods his head at her, Rose keeping to herself and her own business.

“Lady Sansa would like a word with you.”

Oh…not what she was expecting. She cleans her hands on a rag before setting it on the table and follows him out. Ser Davos says nothing as she walks with him, her fingers nervously playing with some frill on the sides of her dress.

“Can I enquire what this is about?” She asks as they pause outside Lady Sansa’s room.

She feels someone come up behind her and turns to see Jon, a soft smile on his face as his hands reach for hers. His hair is pulled back into a bun again, the shirt under his leathers changed since she last saw him.

“You could, though I suspect my sister would be very confused if you tried.”

Her mouth falls open, glancing to Ser Davos who bows his head at Jon before walking back down the hall. It’s then she realizes that Lady Sansa never wanted her…but this was Jon’s way of getting her out of the kitchen and to him.

Gods she’s foolish, her cheeks kissing pink. “So you lied.” It’s not a question and her voice is a little rougher than she intends.

Jon pauses, eyes glancing over her carefully as his thumbs run over her knuckles. This was not the reaction he was expecting, “I was taking your worries from this morning into consideration, trying to keep our business private.” He tilts his head, trying to catch her gaze, trying to read her, “Was I wrong?”

She sighs and closes her eyes. He squeezes her hands, “No, no of course not.” Andrea clears her throat, “My apologies.”

He lets go of one of her hands to cup her face and she finds herself leaning into his touch. “You alright?”

She smiles but it feels tired and tight on her face, “It’s been a trying day.”

Jon hums softly like he understands and gently tugs her towards his bedchambers, allowing the door to close behind them. Andrea approaches the fire in the hearth, letting it warm her body—for as long as she’s been in the North she sometimes still isn’t used to the constant cold. Jon doesn’t prod her about what’s put her in such an odd mood and for that she’s grateful; he always seems to know when she wants to talk about something and when she doesn’t.  

She turns her head to watch Jon take a seat on the edge of his bed, reaching for a cup of ale on his bedside table. He takes a long sip and sighs before resting the cup on his knee.

“Long day for you as well?”

The King of the North nods, humming against the rim of his cup as he takes another sip before setting it down on the bedside table. She’s not sure how much he can tell her and she doesn’t expect an entire story—but she hopes he does know that she’s willing to listen if he wants to talk about it.

Andrea looks back into the fire, the flames licking the top of the hearth and creating patterns behind her eyes the longer she gazes.

“Apparently there’s a threat making its way here.” Jon says after a moment and Andrea turns to look at him, concern crinkling her eyebrows together. “A house that refuses to follow me, apparently they don’t like the idea of a bastard King.”

She frowns but she supposes it makes sense…of course there were always going to be people who opposed him; that was true for any King or Queen. “What are you going to do?”

A soft smile graces his lips, “Wait.” He tells her. “As simple as that sounds. Davos knows the house well; a small forty men follow this Grandshire. He’ll make his way here and maybe we can reason with him, or at least his men.”

Andrea licks her lips, pausing in front of Jon, her mind flickering back to lessons her father had tried to teach her about the houses of the North. Grandshire… Francis Grandshire? A small house tucked away in corner of the North, he was right about that one. Was that the house with the banners that had the turtle emblem or was that something else? Regardless, she’s glad Jon doesn’t seem too concerned or maybe that’s just another lie he’s telling her tonight so not to worry her.

Forty men were still a lot to descend on a household and while Winterfell had at least sixty right now, close by, things were still capable of going wrong. Though she did admire Jon’s perspective of trying to use his words with Grandshire and his men before he resorted to using his sword…she just hopes that’s a smart decision.

Andrea sighs and glances at the cup of ale before picking it up, taking a hearty sip. She instantly regrets it. It tastes _awful_ and slides a little bit like mud down her throat, she coughs, her one hand covering her mouth. Jon chuckles and takes the cup from her, gently pulling her onto his lap to rub her back.

“That’s terrible.” She sticks her tongue out.

“Usually don’t drink it because it tastes good.” He informs her.

She shakes her head as her hands fall to his shoulders, thumbs brushing along the sides of his neck. “Do you think it’ll come to fighting?” She asks absently, thoughts still on Grandshire and his forty men.

“I hope not.” She knows hope is a very foolish thing to have, especially as a King. “Think we’ve all lost enough, haven’t we?” She can’t disagree with that but that doesn’t mean the fighting stops; there always seems to be someone who wants to win with war.

“Besides,” He adds after a few moments. “Don’t think we’ll be wanting to put your sword skills to the test just yet.”

It’s a joke, clearly, but a smile doesn’t touch her lips. She squeezes his shoulders. “I’m afraid that’s been put on pause for the moment.”

Jon watches her, his fingers moving to play with the bottom of her braid. He waits for her to continue and when she doesn’t he fills in the blanks, “You’re not training with Leo anymore?”

Andrea swallows thickly, her eyes not meeting his. “No. He…has made it quite clear that he wants nothing to do with me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, his hand coming to cup the side of her neck, thumb running over her pulse point. He seems to sense that this is what her ‘tiring day’ included, a run in with Leo, some words exchanged that gave her this idea of being unwanted.

He treads carefully, but his voice is clear when he says, “What did he say to you?” because he’s not okay with callous things that might have been said in anger.

She refuses to rehash the conversation word for word. She can’t…she knows how Jon will react. And while she’s touched at his protectiveness she does not need him to defend her honor and she doesn’t want to hurt Leo any more than he already is hurting.  

“I’d rather not tell you.”

Jon hums a little under his breath, his hands reaching up to undo her braid, his fingers working their way through her strands in a soothing way that makes her close her eyes. She thinks she could stay like this forever, sitting comfortably against him, his hand stroking her hair in an almost hypnotizing way. The sound of the fire crackles between them, filling the silence, mixing with each of them breathing.

Then, “You are aware that he loves you.”

Andrea’s eyes shoot open, her gaze finding Jon’s instantly. He’s not joking with her, his hand pausing and falling from her hair. Her mouth falls open but words won’t come out. Leo…in _love_ with her. No…. that’s. That’s not what’s going on here. He’s angry at her for lying, for not listening to him when he only has her best interests at heart. Jon watches her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction but he can’t be serious… can he?

“No,” She says, “No he cares about me, we’re friends.” But her words sound weak even to her own ears. He nods but he doesn’t believe her either, there’s something swimming in his eyes, in his expression. It’s not pity, no… but sympathy that she didn’t _see_ it. “With all due respect, you’ve only met him once.”

How could Jon possibly know?

He tucks a few strands of her hair behind her ear, “I only had to meet him once to know. It’s how he looks at you.”

She feels like the room is caving in on her, like the floor is falling out from under her, like things that she once understood and depended on are being swept away. The veil has been lifted from her eyes…and suddenly, Leo’s behavior makes sense to her. His _words_ make brutal sense.

Leo isn’t hurt that she’s lied to him, he’s hurt that she started falling for the King of the North when he’s been in front of her this whole time.

Andrea leans forward a little, her forehead pressing against Jon’s before slipping to his shoulder, her face tilting into his neck. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes once before tracing a hand up and down her spine.

“Do you want to go find him?” He whispers and what’s even _more_ astounding about this whole conversation is how understanding Jon is about all of this.

She shakes her head and pulls back but only enough so she can kiss him, slow and gentle, her hands resting on his shoulders. Jon sits up straight, Andrea sliding even more into his lap, his hands tracing down her back and pausing at her waist. He holds her there as he kisses her back, a soft noise leaving him as she deepens the kiss with her tongue.

He takes advantage of their position and picks her up, turning so he can lie her down on his bed. His body sinks down on top of her, his hand cupping her cheek as they continue to kiss, his thigh sliding between her legs. That familiar heated ache comes back quickly, building from her chest, lower and lower until she rolls her hips against him—wanting friction.

Jon pulls back to leave open mouthed kisses along her jaw, her neck, sinking down to kiss the top of her chest. He doesn’t rip her dress open this time, thank gods—though she encouraged him last time, she’s quickly running out of things to wear. Instead, he undoes the fabric with practiced hands and pulls it aside to expose her breasts, he kisses one before nuzzling his nose against her sternum. Andrea runs her hand through his hair, pausing at the base of his bun.

“Where are you going?” She huffs, cheeks kissed pink with pleasure as he kisses down her navel, gathering her dress up and lifting it so her legs and waist are exposed. She shivers a little at the exposed air, Jon looking up at her with a small smirk to his lips.

“Patience.”

“ _You_ have patience.” She responds back quick, a little childish but she doesn’t understand what he’s _doing_ down there. He has too many layers on and she desperately wants the heat of his body like last night.

He laughs softly, his breath caressing the inside of her thighs as he spreads her legs and sinks between them. “You won’t be saying that in a few minutes.”

Before she can reply, her words are swallowed by a moan, her back suddenly arching off the bed as Jon presses the tip of his tongue against her clit before circling down. Her legs open a little wider to accommodate him, her one hand falling to his head of curls as the other gathers the sheet between her fingers.

That can’t be fair, when did he learn how to _do_ this?

He pays equal attention to her, seeming to know exactly when he needs to tilt his head, when his tongue needs to circle or lap at her or _dip in._ She squirms, can’t help it, her hips lifting off the bed every so often. She _hates_ the satisfied chuckle that comes from his throat, his hands gently pushing her back down on the bed before he continues.

When his tongue slips inside of her again, with a frustrating in and out pattern, her head tips back to expose her neck. Jon’s one hand grips her thigh while the other gathers fabric from her dress at her navel. Her knees start to bend, rocking her hips down in his direction, wanting more—needing _more._

She’s close already, he has to sense that; how ragged her breathing is, hips stuttering towards him, heartbeat in her ears. The noises leaving her mouth are things she’ll blush about later, but she can’t be bothered about that now.

His name is constantly on the edge of her lips, her one hand moving to cup her own breast as her other hand tugs his hair, probably undoing his bun. _So close—_ so close—

And then he stops, pulls back; her eyes shoot open as she looks down at him. His lips are red and swollen, slightly wet…and the bastard _licks them._

“Sorry, did you still want me to have patience?”

The _nerve_ of him; he actually grins at her. “ _Jon—”_ She can’t even find the words that she wants, so wound up, her body aching for release.

“Thought not.” He laughs softly—he’s going to pay for that later.

He doesn’t waste any time to sink back down, the scruff of his beard tickling the delicate skin along the inside of her thighs before his tongue continues to work on her. It doesn’t take long to build her back where he’s left her, a drawn-out whine leaving her throat as her back arches. Jon hums, his one hand stroking her thigh, encouraging her as his tongue circles back to her clit.

The extra attention to that sensitive area is what pushes her over the edge, his name leaving her mouth over and over like a prayer as she rocks into the sensation. His mouth doesn’t leave her until she’s completely done riding the waves of pleasure and he uses the edge of the bedsheet to wipe his mouth before he presses soft kisses along her thigh.

She lets out a soft noise of protest, wanting him closer, her legs coming together as he moves to lie down next to her. He removes the leather on his chest, tossing it aside, leaving him in a soft long-sleeved undershirt. Her muscles are sore and she’s flushed, she can tell with how hot her face feels, a gentle sheen of sweat on her skin. Andrea shivers and turns to face him, her eyes slipping closed as euphoria licks her nerve endings, coursing through her body like she’s drank an entire casket of sweet Summer wine in one sitting.

He wraps an arm around her, pushing her dress down to cover her before pulling a fur over them both. His lips rest against the moist skin of her forehead, her nose grazing his jawline before she pulls back a little to look at him.

His eyes are a soft brown, warm and comforting, his lips still red and his cheeks flushed. Its then she realizes…

Andrea tries to reach down between them, “What about…” She doesn’t want to leave him hard and waiting, that doesn’t seem fair but he gently grasps her wrist, bringing her hand up to kiss her knuckles.

“Not tonight. Just you.”

A small smile ghosts over her lips, her thumb running along his chin before he sets her hand down on the bed. She’s touched at the comfort, at his efforts in helping her relax…she’ll have to pay him back the favor one night.

It feels wrong to bring it up now, affection swimming between them, Jon’s hand working circles down her back as she inches closer to him—but she has to. She wants him to understand, in case it wasn’t clear, “I didn’t know,” She swallows, “About Leo.”

His eyes wash over her face, his hand moving through his curls to get them out of his face. “I know.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep.”

Andrea is fading fast, her body slowly unwinding, eyelashes fluttering closed. It’s still hard for her to believe sometimes, that she’s here with him, that he’s decided to walk this path with her—wherever it may lead.

It still feels like a dream when she’s awake, making her actual dreams pale in comparison.

\--

Time passes, as it usually does, slow and drawn out, like her breathing against Jon Snow’s chest when she manages to fall asleep on him. Winter takes a turn for the worst, dropping colder, snow to the point where it feels like it might bury them. She’s never minded the snow, how it completely envelopes Winterfell and swallows the bottom of trees, decorates the top prettily like lace. But she’s always cold anymore, from the inside out; to the point where it almost makes her miss the milder weather.

The more time she spends with the King of the North, the more she feels like she’s always known him. Their relationship is quiet, for the most part, Jon holding her want for privacy in high regard. Unfortunately, she’s sure most of Winterfell knows…it’s in the way his gaze lingers on her in the dining hall, how his hands brush her own if he visits her in the kitchen, the warm ‘m’lady’ if he passes her in the halls. Everyone knows how affectionate they are towards one another, how Andrea has ended up in Jon’s bedchambers at night and doesn’t return to her own until morning…but she likes the illusion that her relationship with Jon is her own and no one else’s.

Regardless if it’s only that—an illusion, she finds comfort in the safety and warmth of Jon’s arms and how he makes her feel. One day she’ll worry about having a conversation with the King of North about their relationship, about when she’s ready for him to share with people that they’re together. She’ll worry that he’ll be ashamed and unable to tell anyone how he feels for her, or worse, maybe he’ll decide he can’t because as a King he has no choices in the matter of feeling. As a King, she knows that decisions sometimes have to be made between wants and needs and that the wants of one are sometimes sacrificed for the needs of the many.

Today, however, is not that day.

She’s working outside with a sword by herself since her last altercation with Leo and she hasn’t seen him since. The sword isn’t her own but one Ser Davos has given her to train with…a skinny thing that isn’t as heavy as Leo’s sword but useful nonetheless. She can at least work on her stepping and balance on her own until she finds someone else to learn from.

She thinks about asking Jon for suggestions but she’s worried he’ll offer to train her. For one, she knows he has plenty to do without finding time to work sessions with her…not only that, she’s worried he’ll be too easy on her because he doesn’t want to hurt her. While the concern is touching, she needs someone who will be brutally honest and unafraid to push her—that’s the only way she can learn. She knows that any man she might fight in the future will not take pity on her simply because she’s a woman.

Andrea lets out a slow breath through her nose before lifting the sword again, staring at the ‘statue’ in front of her. It’s actually a body made of hay, two big mounds wrapped in a sack with a target on its chest. Not necessarily made for swords either, used best for archery practice, but she has to make do with what she has.

She swings her sword and manages to hit the wooden target, making it slightly more askew than it was before. Not too bad…except she was going for the neck.

She really needs to work on her aim.

“Andrea.” Her attention is drawn to the landing above her with the wooden awning; Lady Sansa standing against the rail, watching her with intent eyes. She looks like a cat who’s found a wayward mouse—smile inviting but eyes clear and cold. “May I speak with you?”

She nods and pulls the sword out to stick into the back of the hay dummy, keeping it hidden and safe for her. She assumes this conversation won’t take long, probably about putting her on request for the night.

Andrea climbs the steps to meet her, a soft smile on her lips as she nods at Lady Sansa, following her inside. She shivers, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders as the cold seems to follow them. She never quite gets used to how effortlessly beautiful Jon’s sister is, with her long red hair intricately woven into braids or tucked into buns, her soft gowns of dark blues or smoke greys. She’s quite a seamstress, Andrea knows, has seen her complex stitch work on dresses up close and on Jon’s leather.

Andrea has never been good with her hands like that.

“You’re getting quite good.” Lady Sansa says about her swordsmanship; there’s amusement there but it’s not unkind…at least she thinks not.

She laughs softly, following the long hallway to her chambers. “Not as good as I want to be,” Andrea admits. “It’s not an easy craft.”

“You should talk to Arya,” Lady Sansa pulls off her cloak, moving to the hearth to start a fire. “Exceptionally good with a sword.”

Andrea pauses and undoes her own cloak, setting it down on a chair nearby. She’s not quite sure where this conversation is leading or how to respond to that suggestion. Is she…encouraging her endeavors or somehow saying she _is_ in desperate need of more direction?

She clears her throat, “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

A flash of maroon fabric draws her attention to Lady Sansa’s bed and as she gets closer, she can tell that it’s a dress. A _beautiful_ dress carefully crafted together, stone colored lace on the chest and sticking out of the sleeves. Her fingers itch to touch, the material smooth and cool under her palms.

Then she realizes what she’s doing and blushes dark, hands moving away like she’s been burned. “I’m sorry, m’lady.” It’s not her place to touch things that don’t belong to her.

It’s just that the fabric is handcrafted so well that it longs to be touched, begs for it almost…but Andrea knows better than that. The Lady of Winterfell approaches her, shaking her head as she picks up the dress.

“It’s alright, it’s why I wanted to speak with you.” She doesn’t understand, what does this dress have to do with her? She’s about to ask but Sansa turns to look at her and smiles, “I made this for you.”

Andrea’s mouth falls open; for _her?_ Why would Lady Sansa make a dress for her, especially one as gorgeously detailed as this? All her hard work and effort and _hours_ spent putting this together; wouldn’t she want it for herself? Did Jon ask her to do this?

“For me…” She finally manages to say, she’s having a hard time taking the dress from her. She can’t accept this…can she?

Sansa doesn’t take that as a response and instead continues to talk when Andrea finally takes the dress. “I think we’re relatively the same size, which made this easy.” She smiles a little, obviously pleased with her reaction. “Try it on.”

Oh, _gods_ , she can’t do that. She’s still having trouble with the fact that this dress is _hers._ “I couldn’t possibly…”

Sansa laughs, light and gentle as she pushes Andrea towards the changing screen. “You can and you will, I want to see how close my measurements are.”

When she’s finally behind it, she stares at the dress a moment, completely frozen. She’s unsure of what to do even though she’s sure she has no choice in the matter—it’d be rude to refuse Lady Sansa’s wishes…especially after making this for her.

Andrea quickly slides her own dress over her head, hanging it on the chair behind the changing screen before pulling the maroon fabric on—it’s one of the softest things she’s ever felt against her skin except for maybe Jon’s lips.

She licks her own as she concentrates on the buttons and smooths her hands nervously down her sides before stepping out for Lady Sansa to see. The Lady of Winterfell approaches her, smiling as her hand gently tugs Andrea’s hair out from under the collar of the dress.

“Well, well,” She takes her hand and turns her in a circle, a smile of her own twitching its way onto her mouth. “Not too bad. How does it feel?”

An easy question with such heavy implications but as Andrea searches the other’s face, she can tell she’s open and waiting…she genuinely _wants_ to know. This is definitely not what she was expecting when she requested her in the courtyard. She can’t wait for Jon to see her in this; she hopes it catches his attention as it captivated hers when she saw it on Sansa’s bed. She hopes that he enjoys taking it off as much as she enjoyed putting it on.

“It’s lovely,” She breathes out, chewing on her lower lip after a moment. “I’m afraid it’s a little tight here, however.” Andrea runs her fingers over the lace on her chest.

Lady Sansa hums, a quick nod of her head. “I thought you might be a bit bigger there,” and tugs the fabric down over her breasts, which makes the dress feel tighter but she seems to know what she’s doing, calculating measurements in her mind. “This can be fixed, you just won’t have it for a few more days.”

Seeing as how Andrea never knew she was getting a dress in the first place, she’s not bothered. She shakes her head as she slips back behind the changing screen and puts her old dress on, handing Sansa the maroon one. “Thank you.” She pauses for a moment, watching Lady Sansa set the dress back down on her bed. “I think the last time I had a dress made for me was when my mother was alive.”

The Lady of Winterfell nods her head, straightening her back as her eyes graze over the girl in front of her. She’s weighing her options in saying something, Andrea can see it on her expression. So there _is_ something else she’d like to discuss; it was foolish of her to think this was just about a dress.

“You haven’t brought me wine the past few nights.”

‘A past few nights’ was putting it kindly; Andrea rarely had to do that anymore since Jon preoccupied her evenings. But if Lady Sansa was bringing it up that meant there was a problem.

“Were you left unattended, my Lady?” She asks, trying to figure out where she was going with this to somehow get ahead of it.  

“Oh no, I had someone,” She tells her, “Just curious as to where you’d gone. I heard you had fallen ill.”

Andrea blinks, following her line of thought. Is that what Jon had told the kitchen the nights she’d been missing? She hesitates for a moment, rubbing the back of her neck as she approaches the hearth, attempting to think this through. Was Lady Sansa trying to catch her in a lie or was she genuinely concerned about her wellbeing? She knew that Jon’s sister preferred her during the night compared to other kitchen maidens because she never discussed _why_ Sansa needed the wine in the first place.

It seemed like common sense to keep matters that had nothing to do with her to herself but apparently not everyone felt the same way. Andrea knew the importance of keeping sensitive things private…even before her relationship with the King in the North.

“I…” She feels backed into a corner. “Yes, a terrible cold brought on from the weather.” Andrea nods.

The longer Sansa watches her, the more she feels her skin crawl. She squirms a little under the scrutiny; she wants to run from this conversation, has a feeling she knows where it’s going, just so she doesn’t have to feel her eyes on her any longer.

“Is my brother not keeping you warm?” She asks, voice calm, as if she’s asking about the snow outside.

Andrea’s mouth falls open slightly, a short breath seizing in her lungs at the question. This _is_ about Jon—how could she not see it before? Why else would Lady Sansa want to see her? It had nothing to do with checking up on her or making her a dress, no, she’d just wanted her guard down…and she’d fallen right into the trap.

She says nothing, can’t…the words won’t come. She worries they might somehow betray her if she tried.

Lady Sansa speaks again, “But I see you’re feeling much better,” continuing the conversation as if Andrea said something in response.

“Much better.” Andrea says; refuses to stray from her decision about this ‘illness’ even though there’s no use now, Sansa clearly knows what she’s been up to with her brother. “I’m sorry,” She clears her throat, feeling a little lightheaded, though she’s not sure what she’s apologizing for. “I should go.”

She turns to take her leave but Sansa isn’t done, asks her another question even with her back facing her, “What are your intentions with Jon?”

Andrea turns, her hand on the door as she looks at the Lady of Winterfell. Her intentions? How is she supposed to answer that? She’s not even sure where her relationship with Jon is going, let alone being able to predict how it will turn out. All she knows is how she feels about him and how she suspects he feels about her. Her intentions are…genuine, as ambiguous as that sounds. But she can’t say that to Lady Sansa, can she? Will _anything_ be acceptable to her?

“My intentions are…” She trails off, shaking her head. Andrea probably seems disingenuous from her hesitation but she wants to make sure her words are clear, hinting towards nothing misleading. “I care for him. He’s gentle and kind but knows what it means to make a sacrifice and would do so for anyone.” She can’t help a small smile that tugs its way onto her mouth as she speaks of him.

Lady Sansa watches her closely, taking a step towards her as she talks. Her eyes graze over her form, like she’s trying to spot a lie between how she carries herself, between the syllables of her words.

Andrea looks up at her and clears her throat. She understands that she wants to protect him, that she loves him as any sister should…but it’s clear that she and Jon are discovering this thing together and that they’re not shying away from stopping.

“Please,” She doesn’t want to beg but she wants Sansa to understand. “You can trust me.”

The Lady of Winterfell scoffs, looking towards the floor for a moment as if to hide the sarcastic smile on her face. Her reaction isn’t spiteful, in a sense, but Andrea can tell that maybe she’s heard that a lot before—people asking for her trust and regretting it once she’s given it. She’s been betrayed too many times, she can read that in the other’s eyes when she looks to her again.

“I will trust you once you’ve earned it.” Lady Sansa replies and all Andrea can do is nod once before taking her leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments, honestly this is more than I thought this would get :)


	7. Warning Signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please adhere to rating!

She’s heard rumors that Grandshire is getting nearer to Winterfell, that he might close the space between him and their gates in a night or so. She shivers in anticipation at the thought—she has no idea if there’s any weight to the whispers between the walls and corridors but she doesn’t want to bother Jon with asking either. She figures if there was something to worry about, he would let her know.

Andrea lets out a short breath through her nose as she walks down one of the halls, running her fingers through her long locks. As she rubs the back of her neck and chews on her lower lip, she wonders if she should tell Jon about Sansa…about talking with her in her bedchambers about trust and lack thereof. Probably not; that was a private concern between her and the Lady of Winterfell. She can work on proving herself without Jon’s help, it’s only a matter of time before she sees Andrea as she truly is—no strings attached, no hidden meanings or deals or intentions. She cares for Jon as the bastard of Winterfell, not even as a King, without expecting anything more in return.

_A clutter of footsteps—_

She pauses at the sound, turning a little to look behind her. There’s nothing, just wood and stone and the flickering of fire lighting the hallway. She could have sworn she heard…

Andrea shakes her head and continuous onward, until she hears it again. Faster this time, as if someone is coming up behind her. She turns quickly, expecting to see _something_ but there’s nothing, not even a shadow. A flutter of worry works its way up her spine, butterflies in her stomach as her heartbeat starts pitter-pattering in her ears.

Her breathing is starting to match her heartbeat, quick and short, picking up her pace as she rushes down the hallway and around a corner—

Only to run right into someone.

She squeaks as someone grabs onto her arms, trying to steady her but panic claws up her throat. “Hey, hey,” Jon says quickly, Andrea’s eyes meeting his calm brown ones. Relief flushes over her like a wave; oh, it’s _Jon._ “It’s just me.”

She lets out a short breath, her hands grabbing onto his forearms as he squeezes the sides of her shoulders. “Was that you?” Confusion pinches between his eyebrows; she supposes she deserves that. It couldn’t have been him, it was coming from _behind_ her. Was it an echo? Or maybe it wasn’t anything at all, paranoia working against her. “I thought someone was following me.”

Jon frowns, glancing behind her for a moment before rolling his thumbs against the tense muscles aside her collarbone. “I know we’ve been rather…busy lately but maybe I should actually let you get some sleep at night.”

He’s _teasing_ her. Andrea huffs and pushes on his chest, a light chuckle leaving her lips. “Not funny, I’m serious.”

He gently takes her hands into his own, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her temple. Andrea relaxes, her muscles unraveling, a calm settling over her like a blanket as she leans into his chest. Her head rests on his shoulder, nose brushing over the side of his neck, breathing him in.

“I _was_ looking for you.” She whispers after a moment, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline before meeting his eyes.

A hum leaves his mouth, hand coming to rest against her lower back, grounding her. “I’ve been held up with Ser Davos all afternoon, my apologies.”

She wants to tell him that he shouldn’t apologize for doing what he needs to do as King but simply shakes her head instead; she at least appreciates the sentiment.

“Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

Andrea swallows, a nagging urge inside her to mention Sansa or how she’s concerned about Grandshire, but the comforting warmth of his arms melt her concerns to the back of her mind where she can’t reach them.

“I just wanted to see you.” She shrugs lightly. “A little selfish, I suppose.”

Jon smiles gently, his hand cupping the back of her head to draw her closer so he can kiss her forehead. She allows her eyes to close, memorizes his scent, his touch, the caress of his words against her skin like she might lose it, lose him, have everything slip between her fingers like sand.

“I think you can earn the right to be selfish every now and then.”

It almost seems ironic for him to say—is he ever selfish? Does he ever make decisions to benefit himself? She feels like he’s probably always been self-sacrificing, even before he was King. But she doesn’t try to argue with him about that, not now.

Andrea pulls back, her hands finding Jon’s. She takes a step back, starting to wander down the hall and tugging him along with her.

“You ever take that advice for yourself?”

He smiles, “Not as often as I should.”

Her bedroom is nearby and she opens the door by backing into it. She pulls him closer to press a soft kiss on his lips and she smiles against him, a mischievous flicker in her eyes before Jon closes the door behind them.

“Want to be selfish with me right now?”

He wraps his arms around her, picking her up in one fluid motion. Andrea grabs onto him, taking his hair out of his bun. “You’re making it hard to say no.”

She laughs softly as they back up onto her bed, Jon lying her down, but before he can crawl on top of her she switches their positions. She settles against him, between his legs, resting on his chest a moment. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Just part?” He teases, squeezing her sides.

Andrea grins and sinks down between his legs, intending to pay him back the favor from the other night. “Just part.” She confirms, Jon shifting to slide further down in bed into a more comfortable position.

Andrea strokes his thighs, removing his boots and putting them on the floor. She doesn’t go as far as the remove the leather strapped against his chest…it’s not where her attention lies. She undoes his trousers with careful fingers, her eyes never leaving his as he watches her. She nearly falls into the dark brown of his eyes, almost black, his breathing picking up as she exposes him to the cool air of her room.

She lets out a soft moan at the sight of him and kisses the inside of his thighs, leaving little marks with her lips. Jon sighs out, his eyes fluttering closed, hips twitching at the sensation. She smirks, her thumb brushing over his balls before taking him into her mouth. There’s no hesitation on her part, her tongue traveling down his shaft. A guttural moan starts in his chest and echoes through his throat, his hand gathering up the fur on her bed.

She uses her hand to hold his cock, her tongue flattening against the tip, paying special close attention to the sounds leaving his mouth—she wants to go with what feels the best. Jon seemed to know exactly what she needed and where and for how long without any direction from her but it’s not as easy for her.

A dull heat settles between her legs, begging for friction, but she ignores it in favor of giving her attention to Jon. He reaches a hand down to tangle in her hair but not pushing her, letting her take her time even though she’s trying not to tease him.

Not tonight anyways.

Her fingers rub the base of his cock as her mouth sinks down on him again, taking more of him, humming as she goes. A breath hitches out of him, his hips rolling down towards her, her hand stroking the soft skin of his thigh. She can feel him trembling, her name slipping past his lips and setting her insides on fire.

Andrea groans, a shiver coursing down her spine as she picks up the pace with her hand and she hollows out her cheeks.

“Close.” Jon warns her, voice rough with arousal, pinching with desperation.

She pulls back, uses her hand to finish him off. Her cheeks feel flushed, lips wet and swollen, her hips stuttering forward as her body wants _more._ His gaze find hers, his breathing ragged, seconds before his eyes slam shut and he lets go. Jon groans, back arching a little off the bed, her hand slowing as she draws out his pleasure for him.

Once he’s collapsed onto the bed again, Andrea cleans them up, pulling his pants back up before she rinses off her hands in a water basin near her bed. She slides back into bed with him, presses soft kisses along his jawline and settles between his legs. He runs his hand through her hair, his lips finding a ticklish spot on her neck to kiss. Andrea squirms a little and a soft laugh leaves him, affection clear in his gaze as he looks at her.

He pulls the furs up and over them, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Would you like me to…?” He trails off, lips brushing her forehead as he speaks.

The heat is dying inside of her, flickering embers but regardless she shakes her head. “Be a little selfish, remember?”

The King in the North just smirks, pressing a kiss against the bridge of her nose before she falls asleep.

\--

Andrea takes a deep breath through her mouth and lets it out of her nose, concentrating on the hay figure in front of her. She digs the heel of her right foot into the mud to ground herself and swing the sword. It makes contact, but just barely, shaving off bits of the top part. She frowns and draws herself back, straightening her shoulders.

_Damn it_.

She rubs her one shoulder, brushing random pieces of hay from the top of the wooden target with her other hand. She sees Ghost lift his head out of the corner of her eye where he’s laying nearby, watching her, guarding her almost.

She smiles softly at the direwolf to whom she’s starting to spend more and more time with. He finds her often when she’s alone, curls up next to her to warm her or lies nearby, an ever-watchful eye that sometimes feels like Jon himself—an extension of him. 

“I know, don’t give me that look.” She jokes, feeling silently judged by his red eyes. “It’s not as easy as Jon makes it look.”

She’s ready to try again but a voice sounds behind her, “You’re not pivoted enough,” and turns and sees, to her surprise, Leo walking towards her, “Your body,” He clarifies. “It’s not angled to the side enough, that’s why your aim is off.”

Andrea is having a hard time finding the words to say, in fact, her body automatically takes a step back from Leo as he approaches her. Ghost must sense the tension fizzling into the air because he moves to position himself between them. He digs his claws into the mud, a low growl starting in his throat.

Leo freezes instantly, staring at the direwolf before glancing at her. What did he really think would happen? The last time they spoke they hadn’t left each other on good terms…she had no idea what to expect from him anymore.

“I’m not here to fight with you.” Leo says calmly, making no sudden movements just in case.

She watches him carefully, trying to read him through his body language. Eventually she lets out a soft sigh and sets her sword down against the hay figure, “Ghost, heel.” Instantly he straightens and rounds behind her, bumping into her leg before lying down.

Leo’s body instantly relaxes, the rigidness in his shoulders disappearing before removing some distance between them. He remains a few steps apart, just enough, but a lot closer than Ghost would allow them to be before.

“What do you want?” She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t want to; tries to find more interesting things to stare at even though she can sense him trying to meet her gaze.

“To apologize,” He pauses, maybe considering his words, “Hurting you was…it was never my intention.”

She scoffs, because _really?_ “Those things you said…” She shakes her head. “How could your intention be anything other than to hurt me?” Andrea finally meets his gaze and holds it, her eyes starting to water. No, she won’t cry. She _won’t._ Emotions well up inside her chest, her voice shaking, “Because you did. A lot.”

He tries to touch her but she pulls away from his grasp, his hand still hovering before it finally falls. “I know. I should have never said those things about you.”

“Then _why?”_

She knows…of course she knows, Jon was right wasn’t he? How Leo feels about her?

_“You are aware that he loves you.”_

Leo shakes his head, running a hand through his tangled locks, a soft sigh leaving his lips. She watches his expression, tries to peel back the layers and see what Jon saw with one observation. Andrea doesn’t understand it, isn’t sure she wants to…but what she _does_ want is for Leo to be honest.

How else are they going to get past this?

“I care for you and I let my concerns about you getting involved with the King get the better of me,” He sounds like he’s swallowing glass when he says it, _the King._ “You have to know what some of his men think of you…what the kitchen maidens say.”

“They can think what they wish.” She mutters, “They will anyways regardless of how I feel.”

“But those are Jon’s people,” Leo stresses. “He needs them to support him in order to be a King in the first place. They can take that position away from him as quickly as they gave it to him.”

Andrea feels frustration boil in her blood, heating her face. The contrast to the weather outside makes her shiver, “So what are you saying?”

Leo lets out a soft sigh, chewing on his lower lip before he takes a step forward and draws her hand into his own. She tries to pull away but he won’t allow her to, his thumb caressing the inside of her wrist.

“I’m saying, there might be a point where he puts his people’s interests above his own. Above yours. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Her hand relaxes in his own right before he lets go, nodding his head at her before he turns to leave. Her eyes practically bore a hole into his back as she watches him walk away, glancing down at Ghost before picking up her sword.

She angrily positions herself and swings, hard, lopping off the hay-head of the figure in front of her. Her breathing is a little erratic, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. It’s only then she realizes her hands are shaking because Leo’s words have seeped into her pores.

And while she says over and over again that _Jon wouldn’t do that,_ she worries that he might be right.

\--

Andrea takes a break, really needs one after she swings a few more times and wears down the muscles of her arms. She pulls her cloak tighter around herself as she leaves through the gate, not going far, but just enough that she doesn’t feel like Winterfell is suffocating her. Ghost trots closely behind, pushing his nose into the snow.

Stress fills up her ribcage, making anxiety flare hotly in her bloodstream. She licks her lips and nervously tugs the hood of her cloak, playing with the fur there, a habit ticking the moments by. She has to talk to Jon about this, she _must_ ; it’s going to eat at her otherwise. Pretending that she’s not concerned about what the future may look like doesn’t do her or Jon any good—especially since they are getting closer each day.

While she wants to remain in a shade of grey with him, in hushed kisses and gentle touches and smiles against skin, they need to decide where they fall: in black or in white.

She sighs and pushes her foot through the snow, turning around to watch Ghost come up beside her leg.

“You’re lucky you’re a wolf.” She tells him, Ghost only tilting his head at her in response.

Andrea moves to go back inside Winterfell…when she hears something in the distance, a crack of a tree branch being stepped on. She turns but sees nothing other than the whiteness of snow, the stillness of trees.

Then again, the pitter patter of footsteps.

_Like the hallway._

Panic flares up her windpipe, her heart starting to beat quicker in her chest, echoing in her ears. Ghost growls, low and deep, he senses something too. But where is it _coming from?_ She isn’t going to wait to find out.

Before she can figure out what’s going on, Ghost _launches_ himself at someone past her, hitting them straight in the chest. She starts to run but they grab her cloak, spinning her so fast that her head almost snaps to the side, and Andrea loses her balance.

She hits the ground hard, her head ringing, snow completely enveloping her. She struggles to get up even though her body is telling her _go, go, go—_ her hands frozen, legs numb. She looks to her side, blinking fast so the dizziness passes.

Ghost makes a strangled noise, something she never wants to hear from the animal again, high pitched and distressed; like he’s been kicked.

“Don’t hurt him.” She manages to say, rolling over into the snow.

Before she can get up someone grabs her, yanks her up and flush against him. It’s a man, older, face as cold as ice. Andrea squirms, tries to manage her way out of his grasp but it’s futile—he’s holding her _too_ tight, almost lifting her off the ground. He’s pinning her without pushing her against anything, making her feel paralyzed, a soft whimper leaving her lips.

Those rumors she remembers hearing…about Grandshire. This _has_ to be him. Who else could it be?

The footsteps she heard in the hall earlier, was…it was too close in sound to be a coincidence. Was something trying to warn her? She’s never believed in fate or the old gods or the new; but how could that have been anything else?

He doesn’t handle her gently, hands hard like stone, squeezing her hard enough to bruise. His breath smells like rotting teeth, the dead, spits in her face as he talks.

“He’s not the one you should be worried about.”

A sharp pain hits her in the back of her head, traveling down her neck and she swims in darkness.


	8. Grandshire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please adhere to the tags!

She has no idea how long darkness keeps her—hours? A day? Consciousness dips in and out of her vision, blurry—shapes and colors assaulting her senses. Her head throbs, white, so much _white_ blinding her. Voices, are those voices? Or echoes? Her own thoughts? —fizzles in her ears; she wants to move but can’t. She groans softly, her eyes slipping closed against the attack of sound pounding on her temples, like a drum, blood dripping down the side of her face—warm and sticky.

She’s moving though, that she can sense, even if it’s not her own choice someone has her. She turns a little, or tries to, Jon’s name on her lips.

“Please!” The voice is deep and gravely…familiar somehow. She recognizes it in the back of her mind.

Metal rattles, loud and clanking.

“Please I found this woman in the snow! She needs help. She’s bleeding.”

Metal again, scraping, a drawing sound—opening. Oh, a gate.

Reality slams into her and she manages to pry her eyes open, looking up. A face she recognizes, harsh and cold—like it’s made of ice. Those _eyes,_ a hard grey, unfeeling and made of stone.

Oh gods.

It’s Grandshire. It’s Grandshire and they’re letting him into Winterfell.

“No.” She mumbles, trying to shift out of his arms.

She hears other voices, men approaching them as they enter the gates. “Where was she?” One of them asks. And then, “It’s Andrea, the kitchen maiden.”

Andrea’s hand goes to her head, another ‘no’ leaving her mouth as she’s set on the ground. She has to tell the men, to somehow warn them that this isn’t what it seems but it’s hard for her to string words together. It feels like cotton is resting in her mouth, blocking her windpipe.

“The wolf was with her, was it not?” She can hear the uncertainty in one of their voices, the unspoken exchange of words between the two guards as they glance at one another.

She turns, her vision finally coming into focus. Everything happens so fast—Grandshire moves, stabs the two guards, one swift slice to the side while the other is impaled in the neck. Blood spurts into the sky and lands to cover the snow in red. Andrea bolts, or tries to, runs in the direction of the steps but he grabs the hood of her cloak— _yanking_ her back.

It nearly chokes her, a struggled gasp leaving her throat as she slams back against his chest. His grip on her is suffocating, hard enough to crush the bones of her ribs.

“I’m not done with you yet.” He whispers against her neck, his sword instantly moving to her throat as more of Jon’s men rally at the commotion. They pause around them, swords at the ready, creating a half circle as Grandshire backs up against the gate.

She struggles, his grip tightening on her. He spits in the direction of some of his men; Andrea can see Leo at the right of her, his jaw set, gaze concentrated on the blade at her throat.

“Where’s the bastard King?” He calls out, voice echoing.

Grandshire looks around, like he expects to see him amongst his men. No one answers him, and that only seems to anger him more; harshly yanking her against him, the blade digging into the skin of her neck. Leo almost twitches in his spot, foot digging into the mud as if that’ll stop him from launching himself at them. He’s conflicted, she can see it on his face. She manages the slightest shake of her head.

_No._

He can’t move, he can’t get hurt because of her.

“You think I don’t know what she means to your King?” He asks, a smile on his voice.

Andrea locks eyes with Leo—how could he _know?_ Unless…someone from inside Winterfell had been communicating with him, writing him information, it was the only thing that made sense. Leo seems to agree with her, their gaze having a conversation. His hands tighten on the hilt of his blade. It was much more difficult to take Lady Sansa or Arya, they were usually well guarded. Andrea had been alone, no one looked after her, expect maybe Ghost. And gods, she hoped he was okay. She would never be able to forgive herself if Jon’s companion died trying to protect her.

“Grandshire!”

He takes a step forward at the sound of Jon’s voice, dragging her along with him, the King’s men keeping their stances. Some even point their swords closer. A breath catches in her throat as her eyes find Jon’s, hard and angry, yet calm; just like the first time he was close to her.

Lady Sansa hovers near her brother, her eyes glancing back and forth between them. Ser Davos pauses at the top of the steps that leads down into the courtyard, steady, waiting for his King’s commands.

“You have my attention.” His gloved hands grip the railing in front of him. “This is not how we do things.”

Andrea’s eyes sink to the mud, finds something to stare at other than Jon’s face. It pains her to think that _this_ is what Leo warned her about; that something like this would happen where it’d put Jon in an awful position—he could not sacrifice the sake of Winterfell for her. He could not pretend to care too deeply about a kitchen maid when more was at stake—she knew this.

“This is exactly how we do things, bastard.” Grandshire scoffs, “I know what she means to you.”

Jon doesn’t hesitate, “She’s my sister’s maiden, a friend even. She’s also loyal to the North—of course she means something.”

Andrea knows what he’s trying to do—by making her sound like anyone else, he’s trying to diminish her value. Grandshire might be fooled into thinking that he has no leverage and hesitate just long enough so Jon can make a move.

It won’t work however, because Jon isn’t aware that Grandshire truly knows who she is—something only someone at Winterfell could have told him.

She’d been so angry at Leo’s implications, that Jon wouldn’t choose between her and the needs of many…but as she stands here, the moment sweeping over her, she’s suddenly overwhelmed with understanding.

She doesn’t blame him. Because Andrea realizes a key difference that she hadn’t noticed before.

She loves him.

Grandshire smirks and draws his sword closer to her neck, managing a small cut on her skin. A soft gasp leaves her lips but she refuses to make any sound, her eyes squeezing shut before she stares at Jon’s hands—trying to find something to calm her, distract her. _Anything._

To Jon’s credit, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch but the muscle tightens in his jaw and his fingers grip the railing a little tighter—small things that could go unnoticed unless you were looking for them.

“You’re nothing but short of impressive, I’ll give you that.” Grandshire sighs, as if he’s bored. “But you’re not a Stark and you’re not my King—that’s a disgrace to the North. I ain’t following you.” He looks at some of Jon’s men, like he despises them, thinks of them as traitors. “I’d rather be dead.”

“Might be a promise you get to hold true, Lord Grandshire.” Lady Sansa speaks up, her voice calm and cool like falling rain. “This girl will not get you what you want.”

She’s trying for Jon’s sake, Andrea knows that, but Grandshire never loosens his grip. He’s not considering what she says, even though Sansa is a true Stark.

“You came alone.” Ser Davos adds, walking down the steps and pausing when he reaches the dirt and snow.

As Davos speaks, Jon’s eyes find hers. The cold expression melts as he holds her gaze. His demeanor softens, just a fraction, something she can tell because she knows him, gentle in the ways he’s been with her behind closed doors. His mouth moves, a slow whisper of syllables leaving his mouth— ‘it’s okay’, while Grandshire is distracted. She wants to desperately believe him but she’s not sure that she can.

“Which tells us that you either don’t have the numbers or you’ve lost the support of your men.” Davos adds.

Fear works its way up her spine, clutching onto her ribcage, Grandshire almost bending her backwards against him as he positions the blade along her throat.

“My men are waiting for Jon Snow to make a decision.” But it sounds weak even to Andrea’s ears. What does he _want?_ For Jon to step down as King? Even if his men are out there, in the woods, she knows Jon can persuade them if given the chance.

“If this girl means nothing to you,” He suddenly pushes her away but only enough to pull off her cloak and rip at the top of her dress. The fabric tears easily at her shoulders, exposing her collarbone. A sharp whimper leaves her lips as he draws her close again, the hand that’s not holding the sword hiking up her dress.

“Then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I took a taste of her.”

Andrea goes still, part of her shutting down inside; as if she has to in order to get through this. She’s never felt fear like this, except for maybe when her parents died. Her sister, her _Mia,_ flashing images in her mind.

_That_ causes Jon to move down the steps and past Ser Davos, “ _Enough.”_ He hisses, finality echoing in his tone.

Grandshire pauses, smiling tightly, all teeth. His sword moves to her neck again…he thinks he’s won. His lips kiss the side of her neck before whispering in her ear, “Go head, scream for him. Scream for your bastard.”

Disgust washes over her face, her body naturally pulling away from him. “I will not.” She manages to say without her voice shaking.

Andrea would _not_ give him the satisfaction.

“What does it say Jon Snow?” He looks around to his men, “That you’re willing to put your sword down for a nameless kitchen whore.”

He’s mocking him; not only that he’s terrible at hiding his feelings for her but that he’s willing to give into what he wants to save her. As terrified as she is, she wants to tell Jon to leave her, to do what he must as _King._

Jon pulls his sword free, approaching him through his men. Grandshire tightens his hold on her, blade stinging the cut on her neck. “What does it say about you?” He asks, voice dipping low, “That you’d rather use a girl to persuade me than fight like a man? Let her go, you’re not getting out of this.”

Grandshire’s smile fades, just slightly, glancing at the men around the King. They remain loyal, unmoving.

“Are you a coward?” Jon asks, though it’s not a question, he’s trying to provoke him.

He hesitates, his sword slipping down past her chest, but that’s all Jon needs. He moves incredibly fast, uses Longclaw like an extension of his arm. He stabs Grandshire’s left side, the man instantly gargling blood. He lets her go and she stumbles into Ser Davos who is there to catch her.

Jon grabs him, yanking him close so he can run his sword through his chest. Andrea looks away, Davos taking her up the steps. Lady Sansa reaches for her, instantly drawing her inside.

She barely feels her legs move, even as they walk quickly to her bedchambers, the Lady of Winterfell sitting her down on the bed. Her gaze falls to the wooden bear on a table nearby, arms wrapping tightly around herself to try and contain her shaking. Andrea’s eyes flood with tears as Sansa starts a fire in the hearth. She sniffles, fingers touching torn parts of her dress.

“You’re bleeding.” She says, touching her neck with a wet cloth…Andrea hadn’t even seen her move to the water basin. She winces but allows her to clean the cut.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The weight of the question sits heavily on her chest, like stone, suffocating her. Is she _hurt_ anywhere else? Her entire body aches, she’s sure there’s bruises and small cuts, and she feels like she has a wicked bump against the back of her head.

“I don’t know.” Andrea whispers, her voice hurting her throat. Her skin burns where she was cut and a knot forms as she swallows—but she will not cry.

Lady Sansa stares at her for a long moment before nodding softly, “Let’s get you out of this dress then.”

She wants to ask why she’s doing this, why she’s allowing their roles to be reversed. She’s never thought she’d see the Lady of Winterfell tend to anyone let alone her. They change her into a sleeping shift, simple and soft, but it shows the bruises on her arms—dark ugly purple tints left behind by Grandshire’s fingers.

She jumps as the door opens, Jon walking in, moving straight for her. He kneels and takes her hand, even though she flinches she doesn’t pull away.

“Are you alright?” He asks and she wants to laugh at his question.

She’s finding it hard to speak, a mixture of residual fear and shock shaking through her system, paralyzing her. Jon gently clasps the side of her neck, looking at the cut, his face running cold at seeing the bruises on her arms. She swallows thickly, her eyes tracing over his features and…and it’s then she sees the blood on him, blood all over the leather of his chest.

It’s Grandshire’s, it has to be. He looks like he’s been through a massacre—what did he _do_ to him?

That prompts her to speak, it’s the only thing she can think of to say, “He wanted me to scream for you.” Choked words; Jon’s soft brown eyes searching her own. She shakes her head, her hand squeezing hard enough to break his fingers, knuckles white. “I would not.”

Jon leans forward and presses a long kiss to her forehead, Sansa placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Jon,” She says softly, before a little firmer as he pulls back. “Jon, you’re dripping blood. Disrobe, clean yourself up. She’ll be alright on her own for a few moments.”

He looks like he’d rather not but Andrea sniffles and nods her head. Then and only then does he leave, Lady Sansa putting a fur around her shoulders.

“You should try to sleep.” She tells her, Andrea giving her a soft nod before lying down on her bed. She allows her to tuck her in, pulling the fur up to her neck. Her sheets smell of Jon’s skin, enveloping her almost.

Lady Sansa pauses, words weighing on her tongue, she can see her thoughts on her face.

Eventually she says, “He could have lost everything tonight.” There’s fear there, deeper than she’s ever seen. It’s the most honest emotion she’s ever seen on her face. “I hope you’re worth it.”

Andrea swallows, the tears that have been threatening to escape finally pushing past her lids and slide down her cheeks. Shock squeezes her body tight, she feels like she can’t breathe. There are no words for her response, even though Lady Sansa doesn’t wait for one—she quickly and quietly goes out the door.

Andrea is left alone.

It takes her a while to fall asleep, a single thought continuously twirling in her mind—she hopes she’s worth it too.

\--

Sleep isn’t kind to her and her body is incredibly sore as she twists and turns in bed. Images flash through her mind as she drifts in and out of slumber, the fire creating warped shadows on the walls and ceiling. She whimpers, soft breaths leaving her lips, short and quick.

_Mia on the ground._

_Mia with blood caked on her thighs, except, when she follows her body up to her face. It’s not her sister…it’s_ her.

Andrea twists in the sheets, her fingers gripping onto fur like it might ground her. It doesn’t.

_Grandshire’s breath against her neck, his fingers all over her skin, his hand up her dress, against her cunt._

A light sheen of sweat kisses her skin, over her neck, her forehead, along the top of her breasts. The cut on her neck _burns._

_He licks at her neck, rips her dress, she’s naked in front of Jon’s men, in front of Jon._

_But Jon doesn’t move. Instead he watches, he_ watches _this happen to her. Pain, so much pain. Blood and aching flesh ripped open, bruises and cuts and—_

_Mia._

Andrea awakes, breathing heavily, her hand moving to her forehead as she sits up a little in bed. She uses her elbows to prop herself up, looking around the room like there might be someone there. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears, shivering as the chill in the room settles against her warm skin. She swallows, touching the cloth on her neck—it’s dry now so she takes it off. Her cut doesn’t hurt, it was never that deep…just a small one to scare Jon into action. She’ll probably have a scar, a gentle white line, but that’s it.

That’s all she has to show for what she’s gone through.

She hears voices outside, gentle whispers. Jon probably has men standing guard, watching over her, though that doesn’t comfort her as much as it should. The door creaks open and her eyes jerk to someone coming in. Through the shadows and the darkness, she can tell who the gentle figure is that’s moving in her room, checking her windows before tending to the hearth.

Jon kindles the fire, adds another log of wood before turning towards the bed. He pauses upon seeing her awake. He’s cleaned up, washed the blood off. He has a simple shirt and trousers on to sleep in, no fur or leather. How long had it taken him to pretend he was never covered in blood, to pretend he hadn’t killed a man so violently because he used her to breach Winterfell?

How long has she been alone?

“I thought you’d be sleeping.” He says softly, approaching her bed. He takes a seat near her waist, gently picking up her hand in his own.

He’s incredibly warm or maybe she’s cold, she can’t tell. Andrea lies back down in bed, her other hand moving to push hair out of her face, strands that are sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

“I tried.” She swallows, her voice sounds rough, wood grinding together. “I can’t.”

Jon hums, running his thumb over her knuckles. He doesn’t ask her if its nightmares, he doesn’t pry her open to try and read between her words—he’s always been so good at that, sensing what she needs when she needs it. He knows that she’ll eventually tell him what’s bothering her and that she needs time, no matter how much or how little.

He always gives that to her.

“Ghost…is he…” She’s afraid to ask but she has to know.

“He’s alright, little banged up.” Jon tells her, “Grandshire would have had to do a lot more to put down a direwolf like him. He’s a survivor, like you.”

She doesn’t feel as Jon sees her, though she rarely does. His other hand moves to cup her cheek, removing strands of her hair, thumb brushing over her jawline. He tilts her head, just a little, to look at the cut on her neck. The muscle in his jaw is working again and she knows what he’s thinking before he has a chance to say anything.

“He’s dead.”

Jon nods, “Aye.” A simple affirmation. “Ser Davos has gone with a few other men outside of Winterfell to find his men, they should be close by.”

She licks her lips, “You should be with them.”

“I wasn’t leaving you.” Jon’s eyes find hers, tracing over her face. There’s conclusiveness in his tone, like he was never considering doing otherwise.

She remembers Lady Sansa’s words to her before she left, even though they feel like so long ago, foggy and distant. Jon could have lost everything tonight, so much could have happened. What if Grandshire’s men had been closer than Ser Davos guessed? What if they had attacked while Jon was distracted with her?

“I’m sorry.” She says softly, because what else can she say? It seems like the right thing even though Jon’s expression is instantly confused before firm as he shakes his head.

“No.” He sighs, allowing his eyes to close for a moment before, “I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

How can he think that? He was doing what he had to do as King, to make the best decisions he could for Winterfell…for the North. She understands where he’s coming from, the ‘whys’ and the ‘hows’.

“I could have cost you everything.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, though she can’t tell if he’s frustrated or just considering her words, “What do you think would have happened if Sansa would have been in your position? If Grandshire had taken her? Or Arya?”

She searches his eyes, her mouth open but no words coming out; he squeezes her hand.

“I would have made the same choices,” He tells her, bringing her hand to his lips. He kisses her wrist, her fingers brushing over the scruff on his jaw. “Grandshire made the mistake of coming alone…it was always going to end the way it did, regardless if he had you or someone else.”

Decisions like that are never easy, she imagines, having to weigh so much and find a balance in a second, a fraction of a moment. She knows he cares for her, that he never wants her to get hurt, but she also knows he has to think about Winterfell, about the North.

Andrea knows she should feel lucky that they made it through this unscathed…but she can’t help but think of next time, of another instance like this happening again. Was that all they were? Making it through things like this time and time again?  

It makes her head swim so she pushes it away, into the shadows created by the fire where it belongs. She closes her eyes, memorizes the warmth of his touch.

“He knew who I was.” She whispers.

Jon’s body stills, she can feel the tension in his shoulders because he’s so close to her on the bed. “And whoever told him will be found and dealt with.” There’s a harsh sound to his words, like the swing of a sword—a sentence and promise made into the air.

Andrea swallows, glances up at Jon, can feel her fingers tremble in his touch. She isn’t sure what she wants to say, so many words slam into her tongue and the edges of her mouth, “He…” She trails off, her voice crumbling.

She feels something break in half in her chest, her emotions spilling over. Everything pent up from before finally falling free as tears leak from her eyes. Jon’s face pinches with sympathy and he slides his arm underneath her back to pull her up into his chest.

His arms wrap around her tightly as her own rest along his shoulders, her fingers gripping onto his shirt, face in his neck and hair. Sobs tumble forth from her mouth, loud and aching, painful shuddering against his body that he tries to still by stroking her hair and spine.

“I know.” He whispers, lips and nose pressing into her shoulder. His hands work soothing circles along her back, his body creating a soft rocking motion as she clings to him.

He never tries to tell her that she’s okay, that she’s going to be alright—but he does tell her that he’s there and that he _has_ her…and that somehow makes all the difference.

Andrea cries until there’s nothing left, until she exhausts herself to sniffles and hiccups. Jon only pulls back when she stops squeezing him so tight, as if that’s silent permission, and cups her face with both of his hands. He removes tear tracks with his thumbs, pressing soft kisses along her forehead, the bridge of her nose and her lips.

She leans in when he pulls away, deepening the kiss but not alluding to anything more. She just wants to feel him, the way he breathes against her, the soft noises into her mouth, his hands in her hair, his tongue rolling against her own.

Jon presses her back down into bed, moving to crawl into the sheets with her. He adjusts the furs over their bodies and pulls her between his legs as he leans his back against the wall. She settles against his chest, his hand moving to cradle her head, his lips finding her crown and placing a kiss there.

His other hand rubs circles into her shoulder, thumb tracing over patchy bruises that he sees there.

“I love you.” She whispers, her breath caressing his skin. It slips between her lips as she closes her eyes, being lulled to sleep by the heat of his body and his consistent touch.

He hesitates at the admission but it’s not long after that Jon squeezes her before his own response. “And I you.”

Andrea finds no trouble falling and staying asleep this time around.


	9. Danger Lingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments. Please enjoy!

Andrea would be lying if she said the past few days hadn’t been hard on her. She had let herself heal, had adhered to Jon’s wishes and stayed in bed for a few days longer than she thought necessary. But she had made the mistake of trying to forget what happened, of trying to return to normal too quickly.

The North remembers…isn’t that the saying? She always thought it sounded rather poetic; a promise kept, the dead reminisced. But not like this; she feels as if her mistakes are constantly revived, resurrected, unable to be let go. Winterfell buzzes about her, about Grandshire…some even dare say that she made a deal with him and that’s how he entered past the gates. Jon hadn’t sacrificed anything for her, yet some still blamed Andrea for his weakness.

The King of the North, however, didn’t stand for that and had a meeting amongst his men almost as soon as those rumors started.

_“If someone here questions my loyalty or my ability to lead, let them speak.”_

_Andrea hovers near the doorframe closest to where Jon, Ser Davos and Lady Sansa are seated—the infamous long table near the hearth in the dining hall. She doesn’t want to stir up conversations or problems any more than she already has, but she’s close enough to hear everything._

_Arya pauses next to her, glancing between her and Jon. “You belong in there as much as he does.”_

_She doesn’t speak to the smallest Stark often but she respects her; she carries herself in a way Andrea still has not learned to—bigger than her form, like she somehow knows the wisdom and weight of the world that comes with age._

_“I don’t.” She shakes her head, “I am not a Stark and I’m not part of his council.”_

_A smile twitches its way onto her mouth, “But he loves you; he depends on you more than you realize.”_

_A grim smile matches Arya’s in response, “Isn’t that the reason why we’re here?”_

_She hums before nodding her head, moving into the room to stand by Lady Sansa. Andrea leans against the doorframe, watching as the room erupts in conversation at Jon’s words before someone speaks above the commotion:_

_“You’re making decisions out from under a kitchen maiden’s skirt!” Only a few rally behind this comment. She should have known that was coming; Andrea didn’t have much respect to start with let alone now._

_It’s not long before another man speaks up: “She was responsible for Grandshire entering Winterfell!”_

_Jon scoffs, “That’s absurd. You want to talk about traitors to the North? To your King?” Men shout in affirmation. “Someone wrote Grandshire, told him about my business—they will be found and dealt with.”_

_That seems to satisfy most, but a few men still look like they’re swallowing mud listening to Jon’s words._

_Before anyone else can object, Lady Mormont speaks above the chaos, men instantly quieting to hear her. For a small girl, she has an astounding ability to captivate a room. “Did Jon Snow not defend Winterfell and the North by defeating Grandshire?” She asks, though she’s not actually expecting an answer. “Did he not convince his men to fight for him?”_

_She looks to Jon before addressing the rest of the hall._

_“The only thing he’s guilty of is falling in love, which means he’s human. He’s still my King, he’s still_ your _King until his last day.” She looks at him and raises her wine glass. “Which is not today.”_

_A clamor of yells in agreement fill the room, other men raising their glasses to Jon._

_‘King in the North!’ is chanted, over and over, before Andrea slips away from the room._

Regardless of Jon’s alliances to the North being strengthened once again, she’s still working on a complicated balance of letting the past stay where it belongs and the never-ending list of people she has to prove herself to: Lady Sansa, Jon’s men…it seems to get longer by the day. And all she’s doing is becoming increasingly more annoyed and frustrated with herself.

“Whoa!” Leo yells, blocking her sword with his own as he tumbles over a snow bank. “I yield, Rea, I yield.”

Andrea takes a step back from him, panting slightly from her exertion. She runs a sleeved elbow over her face before reaching out a hand to help Leo up. It’s not that she’s gotten better at sword fighting, persay, but she’s given up being apprehensive. She’s not afraid to overstep or go at Leo too hard with her sword…she’s not afraid to get hurt and she doesn’t give much thought to the ‘what happens after’ her steps are followed through.

It’s probably not the best way to train but the adrenaline that sings in her veins is addictive, she likes feeling in control and she likes catching Leo off balance—it makes her feel like she’ll actually have a chance if it comes to a swordfight. If it comes to someone like Grandshire trying to take her again.

She can feel his eyes washing over her, trying to read her. Andrea’s skin prickles, she can feel his words before he says them.

“Don’t.” She swallows, putting her sword in the hay target like she’s always done for safe keeping. She’s done training for today.

Thinking the conversation is over, she turns to walk away but Leo comes up behind her and grabs her arm. She flinches and yanks away from him, a wild look in her eye like a scared deer. He pulls his hand back instantly, apologies written in his eyes but he doesn’t shy away from what he wants to say.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Are you just saying that now because I’m actually knocking your ass on the ground?”

“I’m saying it because you _are.”_ Leo puts his sword back in his sheath, following her towards the steps to head back inside. “You can only carry out movement based on instinct for so long. You haven’t wielded a sword long enough to just depend on that. You need to think before you swing.”

“I am thinking.” She replies, over her shoulder.

“You’re angry,” Leo says, making her pause as they reach the top of the stairs. A wind blows, cold with snow through her long hair. She had pulled it back to train but most of it jerked its way out of her braid. “It’s okay to use that, to put it into your fighting, but it can’t replace calculated thought.”

He doesn’t understand where she’s coming from, he was there but he doesn’t _know_. He wasn’t pressed against that terrible man, his hands all over her, bruising her, blade cold and unforgiving against her throat. She never wants to feel that kind of helplessness; she never wants to feel that close to disgrace or death again.

“Underneath all that anger is just fear.”

She scoffs, looking away from him. She nods her head, breathes in deep to control what feels like fire brimming in her chest before chewing on her lower lip. She _is_ scared. She’s scared all the time. Why isn’t this the appropriate response? Why isn’t fighting back okay?

“And how would you wish I responded, Leo?” She asks him, “Hiding away in my chambers? You said it yourself that neither you nor Jon would always be there to protect me. Grandshire was proof of that.”

Leo sighs, his fingers twitching—she can tell he wants to reach for her but decides not to. “That won’t happen again.”

Andrea doesn’t want to be angry with him, she knows it’s not his fault…that it’s not _anyone’s_ fault except for Grandshire’s and he’s dead. But she can’t help that feeling bubbling over, hot like blood in her mouth.

“No one helped me.” She blurts out, almost surprising herself. She never blamed anyone for it; had told Leo not to move, had understood Jon’s motives as a King but it still left her with that feeling, that _sinking_ feeling of weakness that was eating her alive. “So, I have to depend on myself.”

She walks inside, leaving him out in the cold.

\--

She stops by the kitchen on her way to her room, regardless of her relationship with Jon she still wants to keep up her duties—being with the King of the North does not grant her excuses for not pulling her own weight. She pushes the door open with her shoulder, some kitchen maidens scattering upon seeing her.

“Nice of you to join us, your highness.” One of them snickers before moving towards the dining hall with plates.

Andrea has learned to ignore them with a roll of her eyes, but she can’t deny that it still bothers her. It’s decidedly something she must take care of on her own…she just hasn’t figured out how to do that yet. Ignoring it until it goes away has always seemed like the better option.

“Need help with dinner?” She asks Rose as she takes off her cloak.

 “Always,” She mutters before watching some of the other kitchen maids find their way out.

Andrea sighs and nods, “I just have to drop this off in my room, then I’ll be down. I can cut up the rest of the vegetables, start pouring ale.”

Rose pauses, brushes her hands off on a rag before, “You’re in here almost every night.” She blinks, isn’t sure where she’s going with this. “Even though I’m sure King Snow said you don’t have to be.”

Oh. Andrea shrugs her one shoulder before clearing her throat. “That doesn’t change that I have work to do.”

“Aye dearie, that’s my point,” She laughs, the sound like burnt embers crackling in the fire. “Fuck ‘em.” She says it so casually that Andrea can’t help but let out a short laugh in response, “They’re just jealous that they’re not even half the woman you are and that you caught the King’s eye for it.”   

She never thought of it that way but she smiles back at Rose’s grin, watching the older woman go back to tending to stew over the hearth. It’s times like this she misses her mother but it’s a nice feeling to think that if she was alive, she would have said something like that.

“Thanks, Rose.”

The older woman waves her off, “Yeah, yeah. Now hurry up and get back here, this dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

She smiles, making her way out of the kitchen and down the hall to where her bedchamber is. She’s about to turn the corner but voices behind Sansa’s doors cause her to pause. Andrea is usually never one to eavesdrop and she probably would have kept going…but she overhears her name.

“Why didn’t I tell you I was involved?” Jon repeats the question, like he can’t believe Sansa’s asking it.

“You are a _King_ now, Jon. You don’t get to choose your wants above your needs…it doesn’t work that way.”

Andrea leans closer to the doors but doesn’t quite put her ear against them, she needs to be far enough away to move if they open suddenly. She shouldn’t be here, she wouldn’t want someone to listen in on her and Jon…but at the same time she can’t seem to move. She wonders if this is the first time they’ve talked about her; she finds it hard to believe that after all this time Sansa’s kept her opinions to herself.

“You don’t trust her.” It’s not a question.

Andrea should have known this was coming since her conversation with Lady Sansa; she had assumed it was something they were keeping between themselves but her loyalty to Jon and Winterfell had prompted this confrontation instead.

“After what he did to her, I thought _you_ of all people would understand.”

“You do _not_ get to compare our situations.” She snaps, her voice shaking.

Silence covers the room for a moment and Andrea can hear Jon sigh, movement; she can picture him crossing the room, holding her as an apology, perhaps even kissing her forehead before he pulls away and tries again.

“I didn’t tell you about Andrea because it wasn’t your concern.”

“Winterfell _is_ my concern,” Lady Sansa argues, a newfound strength in her tone, she’s gotten a hold on herself. “She got herself kidnapped and Grandshire—”

“Don’t blame her.” He interrupts, his tone is tired. How many times has he had to hear this argument? “We would have had to deal with Grandshire no matter what, we knew he was coming.”

“She could have cost you _everything._ Why can’t you see that?”

Jon hesitates, recognition coloring the next words out of his mouth—because he’s heard that phrase before, “I should have known that was coming from you.” Andrea tries to read between his words, his voice is strained—he’s betrayed, upset. “What else did you say to her?”

Lady Sansa is calm, like falling snow, syllables hidden behind a wall, protected and guarded. “Nothing, I was looking out for you,” Then, “I don’t know how to trust anyone anymore. Trust has gotten so many people killed. Our family—” She chokes, unable to finish.

Jon moves again, she can hear him, and the next time he speaks his voice his muffled—perhaps from his lips pressed against her hair if he’s hugging her. “You’re not going to lose me.” He promises, voice gentle and soothing, “But Andrea deserves you giving her a chance.”

Hearing her name again pushes her to move away from Sansa’s room, giving them the privacy they originally deserved. The Starks have always been known for family, for sacrificing everything they can for one another. Of course Lady Sansa is scared of losing what little family she has left; of course she’s clinging onto Jon by thinking of those that are dead and gone.

Andrea can’t say that she would have behaved any differently if in the same position. She still feels like she has to protect Mia even though she can’t anymore.

She closes the door to her own bedchambers and leans back against the wood, allowing her eyes to close to for a moment. She then sets her cloak down on a chair near the hearth…and pauses at seeing a letter on her bed.

Andrea glances at her door before walking towards it, her fingers brushing over the wooden bear that she likes to keep close by. This wasn’t here when she left this morning, so whoever dropped it off knew the schedule she kept.

She picks it up, turning it over in her hands before breaking the seal, unfolding it carefully like it might somehow bite her. The writing is delicate, hypnotizing almost as it draws her in.

The message is short but it runs something cold straight through her veins, like ice and snow melting against her ribcage:

_The danger is closer than you think._

There’s no signature. Instead, there’s melted candle wax at the bottom of the letter, a misshapen thing; jagged, not quite circular. But the longer Andrea stares at it…a figure seems to appear. It’s a woman, a red woman on fire.

\--

Andrea plays with the wooden bear between her fingers, twirling it, running her thumb over the expression. It’s not fearsome or cruel but gentle, innocent…Jon had been listening when she recounted to him the story of how Mia used to talk about her favorite creatures, and Ser Davos had put that into the carving.

She glances at the letter on her bed, paper worn for how many times she’s opened it to read it. Danger is closer to her than she thinks…what did that _mean?_ What was the danger? Who had put the letter on her bed?

She sighs and sets the bear down, moving to pick the letter up once again. She traces the careful loops and twirls of the handwriting, down to the wax in the corner. She hasn’t shared it with Jon yet…she hates keeping things from him but it’s something she wants to try and figure out on her own before getting him involved. He has enough to worry about let alone one more thing.

There must be a reason that this letter found its way onto her bed.

“Danger,” Andrea mutters under her breath, like if she says it enough it’ll somehow give itself a new meaning, one that will explain everything.

She sighs and tosses the letter down, frustration bubbling under her skin before a knock sounds at her door. She looks over her shoulder before quickly shoving the letter under the furs, smoothing her hands out on her dress as she walks over and opens it.

“Lady Sansa.” She wasn’t expecting her. It takes her a moment to realize that she wants to come inside, “Oh, of course. Come in.”

Sansa smiles gently before walking through the door, the maroon dress over her arm. “I finally finished this, my apologies for it taking so long.”

In truth, Andrea had forgotten all about the dress. Not only that, but how it had been used as a ploy to rip her open, expose her, to share how Sansa felt about Jon’s interest in a kitchen maiden.

She smiles anyways and takes the dress from her, she won’t pretend that she still isn’t touched that this was made for her. Besides, she’s running very low on things to wear.

“Thank you.” She runs her fingers over the fabric, the lace…maybe she’ll change into it, see what Jon thinks.

Lady Sansa nods and glances towards her bed, noticing the carved bear before going to pick it up. “A bear?”

“Was a gift from Jon, my sister she…she loved bears.” Her hands clutch the dress a little tighter than necessary, as if she suddenly fears Sansa might toss it into the fire.

She doesn’t, merely sets it down where she found it, but it just goes to show that Andrea doesn’t know her intentions…she still doesn’t know what to expect from her.

“Did your house have a sigil?”

Andrea looks at Sansa for a long moment before she realizes it’s a serious question. “No, m’lady. My house was small, I don’t know any of my family outside of those I’ve lost.” If she had living aunts, uncles, cousins, it’d be news to her…but she never heard her parents discuss siblings.

Lady Sansa hums, crossing to the door to take her leave, she pauses though and looks over her shoulder at Andrea. “If you had to choose a sigil…what do you think you’d pick?”

It’s a loaded question, heavy in suggestions. She thinks a moment but isn’t sure what her choice would be…Stark was clearly a direwolf, she knew of lions and stags, squids and flayed men but…what would suit her own house?

Other than…

“A plant,” She says, looking up at Lady Sansa. They reminded her of her mother, of how often she used to work with them, the little talent left behind in Andrea to make them bend to her will. “Lavender, perhaps, or roses.”

“Quite a deceitful choice, wouldn’t you say?”

“Pardon?” But she’s sure she isn’t mistaken about Sansa’s implications.

“Plants are rarely what they seem, some can heal you…some can take your life away.” Her eyes find Andrea’s, holding them for a long moment. “But I suppose that’s why you chose it.”

Heat prickles under her skin; she’s tired of being threatened. “That’s why you study them, you earn respect. Nature does not bend the knee to anyone.”

Lady Sansa smiles, cold and distant, before taking her leave. Maybe proving herself requires her to stand her ground and act braver than she feels.


	10. Fever Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adhere to warning! Also, I'll be going to NY for a few days so I won't be able to update this until I'm back, probably Monday July 2. Thanks everyone for reading!

Jon is alone in the stables when she slips inside, Ghost looking up at her from his position on the floor. Because the direwolf trusts her presence, he doesn’t alert the King of the North to her moving closer to him—he’s tending to a few horses, feeding them, pausing at one to brush his hand over the mane.

“Are you busy?” She asks, but he isn’t surprised by her like she thought he would be.

He smiles gently, not looking at her as he continues to brush the horse. He’s black, a beautiful creature, clearly enjoying the attention. “It isn’t nice to sneak up on people.”

Andrea hums, rounds to face him. “Who said I was nice?”

Jon smirks, finally giving his attention to her. Whatever words he’s about to say are swallowed in his expression. He’s enamored with her, eyes grazing over the maroon dress covering her body, pausing to drink in the lace accents on her chest and sleeves.

“You look…”

Andrea smiles, a soft blush kissing her cheeks and the back of her neck. His inability to finish his sentence is more than enough of an explanation for her. “Sansa made it for me…I think she’s beginning to hate me a little less each day.”

He laughs softly, positioning a saddle onto the horse and buckling it into place. “That makes all the difference, trust me.”

She chews on her lower lip and watches him as he adjusts the reins around the horse’s mouth, a gentle ‘There you go,’ leaving his lips. A small smile tugs its way onto her face, “He didn’t give you any trouble.”

“That’s because I asked him permission.” Jon tells her and takes her hand to set on the mane of the horse, gently gliding her palm down and up in a calming motion. She resists a little at first but relaxes into his touch, trusting him as the horse does.

“Permission?” She asks, not sure she believes him.

“Horses work on mutual respect,” He’s not teasing her, serious in his words, his thumb running over her knuckles before he removes his hand. Andrea continues to pet the horse, Jon pulling back to grab his cloak from a nearby hook. “They’re very in-tune with energy.”

That she does believe, her father had never been good with horses. The creatures would always try to kick him off one way or another, or never let him mount them in the first place. This horse clearly respects Jon, though she’s not surprised, with his calm and gentle demeanor.

“Do you want to take a ride?”

Her hand falls from the horse, her eyes widening a little. “Oh I…” She shakes her head, amusement tugging at Jon’s mouth. She’s never been decent at riding horses; she blames her father, who never taught her because he clearly hadn’t mastered it himself. “I couldn’t possibly…”

He smiles, “Are you afraid?” Jon wraps his cloak around her, using it as leverage to tug her closer to him. “They can sense that you know.”

She playfully bats at his chest, “You’re not helping.”

He cups her cheek, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. Jon grabs the saddle, hoisting himself up onto the horse which paces back and forth a moment getting used to the weight.

“Come on,” He reaches a hand down to her, intent on pulling her up. She looks at the horse and swallows, a slight incline to her head that tells him ‘no’. He still doesn’t pull his hand back, “You’ve never ridden a horse before, have you.”

It’s not a question and an even darker blush stains her cheeks that she completely blames on the cold pushing its way into the stables, “I’ve never had to; I didn’t exactly have an endless supply of horses while I was living in the woods before Ramsay found me.”

“It’s easy, you just straddle…” He smiles a little, mischief fluttering in the brown of his eyes. “I know you know how to do that.”

“I will knock you off that horse, Jon Snow.”

A laugh tumbles from his chest, “Come _here.”_ Andrea gives an exaggerated huff before offering her arm to him and he does most of the work at lifting her onto the horse behind him.

She squeaks a little, her arms instantly wrapping around his waist, inching towards him until they’re pressed together.

“You’re alright, just hold on.” He tells her, allowing her to adjust against him before he’s encouraging the horse out of the barn and the gates of Winterfell.

The horse picks up the pace, trees and snow and scenery instantly becoming a blur. Her arms tighten around Jon’s waist, her face hiding itself against the back of his shoulder. Luckily, the weather is much milder than the past few days so it’s not snowing, nor is it as cold as it has been. But the wind is still icy against her skin as they ride and she’s glad for the cloak around her shoulders and the warmth of Jon’s back against her chest.

When they slow down, that’s when Andrea pulls her head back from his shoulder, opening her eyes to look around. They’ve entered a wooded area, barren trees laced with fresh snow, quiet and peaceful as her heartbeat slows. Jon’s one hand rests against the ones that she has knotted against his stomach, holding on tighter than she probably needs to.

She looks around, unaware of how much ground they covered since her face was hidden. This area of woods…seems familiar to her somehow, she recognizes tree patterns and overturned logs, even after all these years, a frozen creek between two trees turned towards one another, like a triangle.

It draws her eyes to…

A house.

“Jon.” She whispers, her grip on him suddenly tight.

He follows her gaze, directing the horse towards the ruins of a house, barely held together stone. Her eyes drink in everything, trying to find something familiar, something that reminds her of the home she used to know.

But there’s nothing, the stone doesn’t resemble the structure or spine of what stood there before…it’s just piles of rubble, rotted wood, overrun with haphazard green and dying leaves and ice, so much ice.

Andrea nearly stumbles trying to get off the horse but she has to get closer, somehow seeing it from up here isn’t enough. Jon pulls on the reigns and they stop but he’s almost not quick enough to help her to the ground.

“Drea!” He calls after her as she bolts forward, through the snow, faltering against hidden roots under the snow and overturned trees.

She pauses at the edge of stone, her hand falling on top of a few near her feet—she half expects them to crumble into dust at her touch. Her eyes graze over what used to be her home, her childhood, what she has left of her family…of her memories of them. Her mother’s garden is buried in snow, unkept, destroyed by weather. The stable for their one horse has collapsed in on itself, where she used to hide while playing games with her sister.

Mia.

Her eyes find a spot in the woods beyond the stable, the same place where she hid…that kept her safe when those men found her parents, killed her sister.

Jon comes up behind her, she can hear his steps in the snow, doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s taking in the remnants of her home around them.

“For some foolish reason, I thought they’d still be here.” She says, though she’s not sure if she’s talking to herself or Jon.

Her knees feel weak and her legs start to shake. She tries to take a step forward but falters, Jon catching her right before she hits the ground. He turns her in his embrace and holds her against his chest, her hands clutching his back so the world stops spinning around her.

“They’re still here because you remember them.” He whispers against the shell of her ear, emotion welling in her chest at the simple thought. “They’ll never be gone that way.”

Andrea’s eyes squeeze close but she nods against his chest, knows he’s speaking from experience. He picks her up in one fluid motion, walking them back to the horse before helping her on top. Jon climbs on after, her arms automatically lacing around his waist, her chin resting on his shoulder as she looks at the remains of her home.

Jon turns to look at her over his shoulder, his lips finding hers in a gentle, warm kiss. Her eyes don’t leave his as she nuzzles their noses before she rests her forehead against his own.

“Ready?” He asks, just to make sure.

She nods softly, watching as her home fades from view, the horse moving quickly and smoothly through the woods back to Winterfell.

Andrea says the word ‘home’ so confidently even though that’s something she left behind years ago, a place that hasn’t been her home in a very long time. She hasn’t known anything like that since then unless…

Her eyes trace over the back of Jon’s figure, the curve of his neck, the curls resting there, the strength of his back and the long line of his shoulders.

_Does home need to be a place?_

She closes her eyes and presses her face against the side of his neck, Jon’s hand returning to her own against his waist.

\--

Jon has a bath drawn when they get back to Winterfell and while she’s not exactly cold, there are trembles working up and down her spine. She moves to her room to take her dress off, pulling on a simple cream-colored robe to hide her nakedness when she walks to Jon’s room.

Andrea pauses at her bed, her eyes grazing over the furs— _take the letter, tell him._ She sighs and pulls the letter out, tucking it into her robe before grabbing a small vile on her bedside table and wanders down to Jon’s bedchambers. She pushes the door open with her shoulder, a soft smile on her face as she watches him dump one more bucket of steaming water into the tub in front of the hearth.

She plays with the vile between her fingers before removing the cork, pouring a decent amount into the water.

“Jasmine.” She answers Jon’s curious look.

He scrunches his nose in response, making her laugh as she playfully shoves him aside. Andrea seats herself on the edge of the tub, her fingertips grazing over the foggy water, the sound echoing in the small room.

“This tub is big enough for two.” She says after a moment, eyes flickering to Jon. It’d take a little maneuvering but they could both fit.

He’s in the middle of taking off the leather on his chest and his boots, “Hmm, I hadn’t noticed.”

She grins, standing up and wandering over to him. She unties the top of his shirt, his fingers moving to play with the collar of her robe. “I’m sure you haven’t.” She muses. “You have work to do? Kingly duties?”

Jon’s thumb brushes over the swell of her breast, her stomach fluttering as he pauses near her nipple.

“I’ll see if Ser Davos wants to join then.” She mentions nonchalantly, moving to pull away from him.

Jon instantly tugs her against his chest, his hand moving to cup the back of her neck as he speaks against her lips, “You will not.”

She grins, “You’re wearing too many layers then.”

Andrea presses herself up on her toes to kiss him, his arms wrapping around her waist. They don’t stay there for long, however, because he moves to untie her robe allowing it to fall the floor. They step over it together, Jon’s hands squeezing her waist, a soft noise leaving her lips as his calloused fingers rub against her skin.

She tugs his shirt off his body, tossing it aside, fingers immediately doing the same with his trousers. Her lips move to kiss down his jaw, his neck, hands tracing the lines of his chest as her legs bump against the tub. They pause, Andrea brushing a kiss over his collarbone before pulling back.

Jon’s body is toned, muscles hard under her fingertips and she can’t help but trace over the scars left behind from battles, wars, misunderstandings. She wants to ask him about them, especially the crescent moon over his heart but she’s afraid of prying something open he doesn’t want to share with her.

He can sense her question, takes one of her hands and kisses the pads of her fingers before helping her into the tub.

“What happened to you?” The question is soft, almost gets lost in the crackling fire behind them.

Jon sighs and steps into the tub as well, his hands outlining her waist and brushing over her navel, his lips pressing a kiss to her shoulder where bruises from Grandshire are finally fading.

“What usually happens,” He smiles but its grim, cold, almost sickly looking. “Betrayal.”

Andrea swallows, her eyes flickering over the many scars on his chest. Did they…all come from one person? She shivers, hates to think of someone hurting Jon, surprised to think that someone would _betray_ him. She wants to ask who, wants to know _why_ someone would do such a thing to him. It’s one of her biggest fears, Jon’s men rallying against him, not talking about the choices he’s making and instead vying to hurt him, to overthrow his leadership.

The words are swallowed; she can tell he doesn’t like talking about it just like Jon always seems to know when to ask her things and when to leave things rest. So, she’ll let it rest.

He sinks down into the tub, letting out a soft sigh as his shoulders sink below the water a moment before he positions himself against one end. He spreads his legs, pulling her down between them. She rests her back against his chest, a small chuckle leaving her lips as her one leg gets tangled with his.

“You might break this tub.” He comments, amusement in his tone as she finally stops squirming with a huff and leans back.

“ _Me?”_ Andrea scoffs, her head falling onto his shoulder. “You mean, _we._ You’re in here with me, remember?”

“You’re the one moving around,” His one arm rests along the side of the tub while the other strokes her thigh.

“You’re tickling me.” She squirms again, elbowing his arm which Jon pulls out of the water with a soft laugh. “If this tub cracks you’re going to have to share mine,” She turns to look at him, nose brushing against his neck. “and it’s twice as small.”

Jon grins, “Better not fool around then.”

She hums, letting out a slow breath through her nose as she relaxes, her eyes slipping closed as she lets the water and the warmth of Jon’s skin unwind her muscles. He presses a kiss against her forehead, his one hand moving to play with her hair resting against her chest. She can feel him detangle it out of the braid it’s in, fingering through the strands with calm and gentle strokes.

“How is training with Leo going?”

Andrea is surprised by the question—she hadn’t exactly found the time to tell him that Leo apologized; that they were on speaking terms again. Is he wondering why she didn’t talk to him about it? The question doesn’t sound like it has multiple layers to it, unlike when Sansa asks her something. It’s simple, born out of curiosity; he clearly knows she’s training because he’s observed her or someone told him.

“It’s going well.” She opens her eyes, turns her head a little to look into his brown ones. “I’m getting more confident.”

A ghost of a smile graces his lips, “I’d like to come watch you one time, if that’s alright.”

Blush colors her cheeks and blossoms on her chest…she’s not sure she’d be able to concentrate if Jon is watching her train. She doesn’t outright tell him no by saying, “Leo says I’ve been pushing myself too hard.”

He brushes her hair over her shoulder, “You’ve been through a lot; I think I’d be concerned if you weren’t.”

“I think he’s been saying that because I’ve been knocking him onto his ass lately.”

Jon snorts out a short laugh, “Ah, so this is about his ego then.”

“I thought so,” She lifts her arm out of the water to play with some curls near his ear. “The look of surprise on his face has been very worth it.”

He licks his lips, caught in a thought playing through his mind. She can tell he wants to ask something, that the words are caught behind his tongue. She waits patiently, doesn’t try to pull it from him, has a feeling she knows what he wants to say.

“He cares about you.”

Andrea brushes her thumb along his jawline, “And I care about him,” She agrees and then pauses, “But it’s not…I don’t love him.”

She’s not sure what Jon needs to hear, if that’s why he’s bringing up Leo in the first place but it doesn’t hurt for her to be clear. Jon watches her for a few moments before leaning up, closing the space between them, his lips brushing over her own.

He kisses her, slow and gentle, his one hand sinking down her chest and gently cupping her breast. A soft breath leaves her mouth, Jon tilting his head to deepen the kiss as his thumb brushes over her nipple. He doesn’t pause there, his hand slipping below the water to rest between her legs.

That familiar heat she associates with him starts to build in her chest, slipping down her stomach and lower. It’s hard to move in this tub, they barely have room but he accommodates by pushing his fingers past her lips to circle her clit.

_Gods._

Her hips instantly twitch against the sensation, a sigh. “I thought it was ill-advised to fool around.” She reminds him, bringing up his words from earlier.

“I decided I’m willing to sacrifice this tub.”  He smiles as his lips slip to her shoulder, nuzzling at the skin there, his fingers continuing to tease before slipping inside her.

She moans as she rocks against the feeling, a fire kindling between her legs and licking at her nerve endings. Jon has this ability to set her on edge with a few simple touches, knowing exactly what she needs and when, he reads her body like a letter. He kisses her neck, his tongue sliding over her pulse point but she can’t help but whine as he adds another finger, she needs _more._

She rolls her hips back, groaning as she feels Jon’s cock pressed up against her lower back. He shudders, a noise leaving his lips as she does it again. It only takes her a moment to turn around, his fingers slipping from her. She almost falls out of the tub trying to face him, laughing as Jon grabs onto her hips to steady her.

“There’s not enough room for this.” He grins up at her before she sinks down onto his lap. She lines them up, groaning as he slides into her.

It’s not as slick, almost a little painful thanks to the water surrounding them but he rubs her lower back until they’re comfortable, her legs barely wrapping around his waist. It’s tight, but it will work…the wood of the tub creaks around them in response.

“Would you like me to stop?” She pants a little, her hands falling to his shoulders.

Jon thrusts his hips up in response, hitting a knot of heat inside her, some water in the tub lapping over the sides. A choked gasp leaves her lips and she tries to roll her body to meet his movements but the position in the tub makes it difficult. He does most of the work, holding onto her tightly as he quickens his movements. Desperation starts to bubble inside of her, she wants _more_ and _deeper,_ her fingers digging into the skin of his shoulders.

“Jon, please,” She whispers, head tipped back, her neck exposed to his lips which he takes advantage of. He nips at her skin, drawing her body closer in the water so that there’s no space between them.

He grunts in response to her, panting as he picks up the pace even further, his body shaking with exertion. They’re both close, she can feel it, and because of that she doesn’t know who let goes first. Pleasure wracks through her body, her hips thrusting forward into Jon’s, the water in the tub creating a wave that ends up splashing all over the floor.

His head falls forward, forehead pressed against her shoulder as he tries to level out his breathing. Andrea smiles, euphoria sparkling in her veins as she kisses Jon’s temple and runs her fingers through his hair above the nape of his neck.

The water is cool by the time they pull apart, Andrea’s legs trembling with the effort of holding herself up as she steps out of the tub. Jon grabs a sheet to wrap around her body as he glances around at the mess on the floor. He dries himself off and pulls on his trousers, tying them.

“At least the tub was salvaged.”

She smirks as she looks at the bottom of the tub, tilting her head at the puddles of water. “Barely.”

Jon picks up her robe from the floor before water can seep into the fabric, intending on helping her put it on but the letter that had been pressed into the folds flutters to the floor. He moves to get it before she can, passing off her robe to her.  

He looks up at her, his thumb running along one of the edges, he can tell she’s read it quite a few times. “Someone put that on my bed.”

It’s like a shadow passes over his face, the affectionate smile he reserves for her slipping away from his lips as he opens up the letter to read it. His eyes trace over the sentence, short but to the point, his thumb running over the wax shape near the corner.

“When did you get this?”

She bites her lower lip, pulling the robe on over her shoulders and tying it tightly around her waist. “A few nights ago.”

His eyes flicker to hers, a soft breath leaving his mouth. He suddenly looks like he doesn’t want to be in this conversation, “You didn’t tell me.”

Andrea blinks and tries to read his face. She didn’t expect a reaction like this from him; frustration pinching at his forehead, is that anger brushing over his tongue? He’s upset. “I’m telling you now.” Because isn’t that good enough? She _was_ going to tell him, it just…took longer than she expected.

“I can’t protect you if you keep things from me.”

Heat sparks in her chest at that statement, itching down her ribcage and sternum. She tries to bite her tongue because she’s still working through what happened with Grandshire, still trying to accept how Jon reacted as King. She says she understands and she does but sometimes she still has nightmares about Grandshire dragging her off to have his way with her and Jon just stands there and _watches._

“You _can’t_ protect me anyways.” She snaps, her words not only surprising Jon but herself.

She looks away from him, her breath catching in her throat. Jon pauses, running a hand over his face. He takes a step forward but doesn’t touch her—Andrea thinks he’s trying to catch her gaze with his own, that he’s waiting for her to look at him but she can’t.

“I did all I could.” He says quietly.

She swallows, closing her eyes for a moment. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Her head snaps up, an incredulous look swimming in her eyes. Now is he _accusing_ of her of not understanding? All she’s done is try to understand the choices he’s had to make…maybe he should take a second to think where _she_ is coming from.

“I can’t talk about this.” She feels that familiar wave of panic and fear sweep over her, like a dark wave, pulling her under the water where she can barely breathe. She already had this conversation with Leo, she’s not about to have it with Jon.

She turns to leave but he grabs her by her shoulders, his hands slipping to hold onto her arms. He startles her, his fingers pressing into her skin, his touch nearly bruising “When I saw that Grandshire had you, I thought of nothing more than driving my sword straight through him.” She swallows thickly, looking up at him. “But I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”

“Let go of me.” A calm demand, despite what she feels.

Jon’s hands instantly fall away and Andrea steps back from him, trembling. He watches her, his arms moving to reach for her again, gentler this time, but decides against it. She pulls her robe tighter around herself and moves towards the hearth, distracting herself by looking into the fire.

“My apologies.” Jon mumbles after a few moments, shaking his head.

Moments pass between them, the silence filled with the crackling fire and the gentle sound of their breathing.

“This only works if we’re honest with one another.”

She closes her eyes and sighs, she knows he’s not exactly wrong. “I was always going to tell you,” Andrea turns to look at him, “I didn’t want to worry you. You already have so much going on…I know that being King in the North is your concern.”

Jon joins her by the hearth, his steps slow and calculated. He scared her before and realizes that that she needs to see his decisions before he makes them in case she wants him to stop. He leans in slow, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“So are you.”

When she doesn’t pull away he wraps an arm around her, his hand working its way down her hair. Her hand settles against his side, fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt when he does pull away.

“I’ll see if Davos can figure out who put this in your room.” Jon holds up the letter between two of his fingers before opening it again to take another look.

“Who would send something like that?” She asks, watching him look at the candle wax, a contemplative crinkle appearing on the bridge of his nose. “What is it?”

“What does this look like to you?” He shows her the wax, running his thumb over it.

She stares at it for a long moment before glancing at the fire, unsure of what to tell him. Does he see the same thing she does? He picks up on her implication, nodding towards the hearth himself.

“The Red Woman.” Jon agrees. “Melisandre.”

“But why would she send me something like this? I’ve never even met her before.”

Andrea knows of the Red Woman, of course, has heard stories about her than anything else, rumors around Winterfell. The woman who saw things and talked with fire…why would she be reaching out to _her_ of all people? She never even spoke to her when she _was_ at Winterfell before being banished.

“She does things like this,” Jon sighs, crinkling the paper between his fingertips. “She wants a way back in because she was banished.”

And that would make sense, maybe, except…Andrea still doesn’t understand how she ties in with all of this. Why would Melisandre send her a letter, warning her about danger? Did she know what happened here with Grandshire, was someone keeping her in the loop on things passing in Winterfell? Or did she just _know,_ as Jon alluded to.

She runs a hand through her hair, _danger…_

Andrea opens her mouth a moment, her mind bouncing back to the footsteps in the hallway, the footsteps she heard outside of Winterfell right before Grandshire got her.

“The footsteps.” She says but Jon isn’t following. “I heard them again before…before Grandshire came up behind me. What if hearing them in the halls that day I ran into you was some sort of warning?”

“A warning from the Red Woman?” He asks, trying to follow her thought. At least he doesn’t seem to think she’s completely irrational for thinking it.

“Danger is closer than I think.” Andrea says, careful and slow with each of the words as they leave her mouth. “Maybe that’s what she meant. Even though Grandshire is gone…I’m still in danger.” They still hadn’t found the person conspiring with Grandshire, the person who was writing him to let him know that she could be used as leverage with the King of the North.

Jon glances to the letter in his hands before he looks at her, “She’s just trying to scare you.”

Andrea swallows, taking the letter from him before tossing it into the fire. She watches the parchment curl and fringe, turning black as it sizzles away. “Well, it’s working.” She whispers.

He tucks her into his chest easily, like she was always meant to fit there, her head right under his chin. She allows her eyes to close, his arms wrapping around her back, squeezing her gently as she presses her nose and lips into his shoulder.

The letter turns to ash as she leans into Jon’s chest.

\--

_There’s a darkness that’s whispering to her._

_She’s not scared though because it sounds familiar. It wraps around her, like fog, hugging her pores…she sinks deeper, her body feels heavy._

_Danger…_

_She seems the Red Woman, on fire, walking down the halls of Winterfell. She then sees her, quick flashes of light and shadows; Melisandre in her childhood home, talking with her mother. Laughing with her._

_She feels as if she’s known her a long time._

_Then, Andrea’s in the hallway and then the kitchen, then right outside Winterfell, those echoed footsteps again, right behind her, against her._

_“That won’t happen again.” The words vibrate against walls, against her ribcage, become larger than life…shadows that walk with her. Her fingers trail along the stone walls, breaking her skin open._

_She’s bleeding._

_‘The danger is closer than you think’,_

_She’s never exactly been safe, not once in her entire life—why should now be any different?_

_Footsteps again, following her, so close now…_

_Andrea turns and a knife slides into her gut, her mouth filling with blood as she looks down at the hand holding the hilt—she knows those hands._

_Her eyes glance up, trying to find a figure, a face,_ anything _in the darkness but there’s nothing. The knife plunges deeper—_

Crack!

Andrea jerks up in bed, breathing heavy, her hand instantly resting against her abdomen as the fire crackles and pops in the hearth. She sighs; that’s what woke her, of all things. She runs a hand over her face, pulling back the sheets to look at her stomach. Even though she knows it was a dream she has to check, just in case—she can still feel the ice-like metal of the blade against her skin, inside her, the echoes like soft kisses along her neck.

Jon sits up in bed and carefully wraps his arms around her from behind, his lips pressing a soft kiss on her jawline. She’s tense for a few moments before she lets out a soft breath out her nose, her eyes slipping closed.

“You alright?” He whispers, voice thick with sleep. She feels terrible for waking him. Andrea can’t speak, not yet, she’s trying to get her breathing under control. Trying to get her heartbeat out of her throat but she does nod. “Another nightmare?”

“Same one.” She manages to say after a moment, leaning back against Jon’s chest.

She’s had this one before, a few nights ago and one or two nights before that. It always happens exactly the same way—same voices, same footsteps, same painful result with no satisfaction of who is driving a sword into her. She runs a hand over her face, her fingers resting against her mouth. Sometimes she worries it’s the Red Woman, reaching out to her from wherever she may be, giving her another warning she doesn’t understand.

It would make sense to see her childhood home, since she just saw it again days ago with Jon, but seeing _Melisandre_ there is what doesn’t add up. Why would she be there, talking with her mother like she’s always known her? Is it a distant memory or are her dreams melting reality with fiction?

Jon runs his hand over her stomach, warm and comforting, reminding her that she’s alright and that it wasn’t real. He knows what she’s thinking, of course he knows.

“Can I get you anything?”

She wishes there was something she could ask for, something she knows that would make her feel better but she’s left with the awful realization that there’s nothing he can do. She merely shakes her head and turns to lie down, Jon following suit by facing her and pulling the furs over their shoulders.

She can make out the lines of his face from the shadows of the fire, playing in shapes on the ceiling. She moves to cup his cheek, to touch his skin, her thumb running over his lower lip. He kisses the pad of her finger, his hand moving to rub her shoulder and arm before he slips it down to her lower back to press soothing circles there.

Andrea memorizes what he looks like, the dips and curves of his face, as if she might never see him again. He’s strikingly beautiful, even in this dim lighting, even though she can tell he’s tired. Always so tired. And despite the weariness that weighs heavy on his shoulders, he doesn’t sleep until he’s sure she’s alright, until she drifts first.

“Whenever my sister or I had nightmares when we were little,” She tells him, “My mother used to sing to us.”

He pulls her a little closer, “You really don’t want to hear me sing.”

Andrea laughs softly, “I wasn’t requesting, your Grace.” She kisses the bridge of his nose.

Jon hums, the sound vibrating in his chest, his eyes washing over her face. He’s drinking her in, like in the way her fingertips are tracing his cheek, his jaw, his lips. “I would if it helped.”

She’s touched by the sentiment but her smile slowly slips from her lips as she shakes her head, “I’m not sure anything can help.” Andrea brushes her fingers through his hair, moving curls away from his forehead, “You should sleep, I know you need it.”

“So do you.” He counters because he’s right if he’s sensing that she might not sleep for a while.

“I’m alright,” Andrea says, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

In all honesty, she is tired, but her mind won’t let her rest. She’s going to have to sit up with this a while, talk with it, kill it, convince herself that it has no power over her. He’s stayed up with her once before, she will not let him do that again. She can get through this, she just has to give herself space and time to do so. One of these nights she’ll stop having these nightmares. Though trying to remain patient is easier said than done when frustration and exhaustion tug harshly on her body.

Jon looks unconvinced and she can’t help but roll her eyes as she pokes at his chest before saying, “I promise.”

He smirks before he takes the hand against his chest and kisses her knuckles, her gaze following the tender gesture before he allows his eyes to close. Sometimes she forgets this is the same person who was covered in Grandshire’s blood; that his careful and soft touches were just as violent and deadly as those that killed the man who threatened her life.

It’s not long before Jon’s breathing evens out, eyelashes fanning against his cheekbones, hand loosening on her lower back. She leans forward and presses a long kiss to his forehead before pulling back from him and out of bed. Andrea sighs, watching him for a moment. He rolls onto his stomach and presses his face into her pillow but doesn’t wake.

At that point she grabs a thin robe from her chair to wrap herself in before walking past Ghost to the door of her bedroom, grabbing a candle on the table to light her way. He lifts his head and looks at her, as if he’s asking her a question. She can’t help but offer a smile and a soft clicking noise as she opens the door, asking him to come with her. He moves instantly, walking close to her as they move down the intricate hallways to the kitchen, slipping inside soundlessly.

Andrea walks to the table near the hearth, which is long since cool and quiet from dinner being over. A shiver courses up her spine as she touches the stone for a moment, setting the candle down to light up the room. How cold and impersonal the kitchen is without people bringing it to life, without someone cooking in it.

She licks her lips and sees Summer wine on the table and reaches for it, pouring about a half of a glass for herself. She wonders if Sansa has had any yet tonight or if she’s moved past needing it. Her fingers grip the glass before she takes a long sip, closing her eyes as the wine hugs her warmly from the inside. She now understands Lady Stark’s reliance on having a late-night drink when she had nightmares, it was certainly more comforting than she imagined.

_Footsteps._

Andrea freezes, glancing towards the kitchen door as she hears someone approach. Ghost doesn’t move however, he doesn’t make a noise, and that should offer her a bit of comfort shouldn’t it? That means he recognizes who it is?

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until Ser Davos pushes his way into the kitchen, pausing upon seeing her.

“Pardon me, m’lady, I heard noises and wanted to see what it was.”

Andrea smiles softly and leans against the table as he walks towards her. “Keeping Winterfell safe, Ser Davos?”

“I suppose someone ought to do it,” He smiles; joking of course. She’s never seen anyone hold as much respect as Davos holds for Jon. “Especially as the King sleeps.”

“Well, I hope you know that I appreciate that as much as Jon does.”

He glances over at the wine glass in her hand, the cask nearby, but he’s not judging…just observing.

“Can’t sleep, m’lady?”

Andrea sighs and takes a sip of her wine, her other hand running through her tangled locks. She tries to smile against the rim of her glass but why hide how she’s feeling from Ser Davos? For one, he’s more observant than that, and she also knows that Jon has been transparent about her feelings and this letter from the Red Woman.

“Afraid not. Not since that letter.” If she’s being honest, it’s stretched out to even before then. Since Grandshire…but she doesn’t like to talk of him unless she has to, doesn’t want to give him any more power than he deserves.

He nods and pours her more wine, “I haven’t been able to track down who put that letter in your chambers.” It would make sense if he couldn’t find anyone, if it merely appeared there, out of the fire, out of ash as if it was sent directly from Melisandre herself. “But I am searching to see who was conspiring with Grandshire, there has to be letters from that somewhere. And I won’t stop looking until every possibility is overturned.”

She smiles gently and nods, moving to press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. She knows he’s going about it as discreetly as he can so whoever did this doesn’t have time to burn the evidence.

“Can I ask you something?” His expression back to her is open, yet careful, before he nods, “Did you know the Red Woman…Melisandre very well before she was banished?”

A shadow passes over his face and it has nothing to do with the low-flickering candle in the room. He knew her, she can tell without him uttering a word, and from what she can observe he has no good opinion of her.

“I knew her as well as she let anyone ‘know’ her,” Davos clears his throat, “She was a deceitful and unkind woman and I hate to say that if she sent you that letter, she wants something from you. She won’t stop until she gets it, no matter the cost.”

Emotion is chokingly thick on his tongue and Andrea isn’t sure how to respond to that. Her initial reaction is to touch his shoulder, offer him comfort even though she isn’t sure what he’s been through but decides against it. He’s rigid, lost in a memory and she knows from experience that touch isn’t helpful during something like that.

It seems irrelevant to bring up that she thinks Melisandre might have known her mother just from a few dreams, there’s probably no truth to it anyways.

“I just want this to be over.” She admits, taking another sip from her glass. She empties it and sets it down, knows she should go back to bed, tuck herself against Jon’s chest and will sleep to come.

“It will be, sooner or later things like this are always forced into the light. Whoever did this can’t hide forever, I’ll make sure of that.”

Andrea holds his gaze for a long moment, shadows playing tricks on his face from the lone candle in the room.

She just hopes he’s right.


	11. Confessions and Betrayals

Andrea swings her sword, hard, and Leo has to throw himself onto the ground in order to keep his head.

“I yield!” He calls out from the mud, shaking his head as he looks up at her. She can’t help the soft laugh at his expression, holding out her hand to help him up. He refuses, obviously, and rolls over to give himself momentum to stand.

She sighs, readying herself for a lecture as he brushes snow and dirt off his chest. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw your back out with a swing like that.”

And there it is, “I just figured I’d go for it,” She admits with a slight shrug to her shoulder. She’s not quite sure if she’s getting any better though, other than her will to just _swing_ and see what happens. Either way, Leo isn’t amused.

“You could have injured me.”

That was the point of sword fighting, was it not? “Weren’t you just worried about me a moment ago?” She teases, drawing her cloak around her shoulders.

“You’re getting faster.” He sheathes his sword as Andrea spots Jon walking down the steps, his eyes finding hers instantly in the courtyard.

She smiles towards him before looking back at Leo, “Maybe you’re just getting slower.”

He laughs but the reply dies in his mouth as he notices Jon walk up to them, his head inclining slightly to greet him. “Your Grace.”

“Leo,” Jon says before offering his attention to Andrea, “How are you faring?”

“Haven’t ended up on the ground in a while, so I’d say it’s going well.” She grins, “I think I’m doing significantly better but I still have a lot to learn.”

“She’s faster, not afraid to swing the sword…apparently,” Andrea giggles as Leo rolls his eyes, “She still has to work on her footing, keeping her balance and at some point how to block.”

“I can block,” She argues; they’ve been focused on her foot-work lately but…she can block him if she has to.

“With your sword, yes,” Leo manages to kick her sword out of her hand, a slight laugh leaving his lips, “Which is well and good when you have one.”

Jon smiles, “He’s not wrong,” He picks up her sword to hand it to her. “You should always work on having some sort of shield in case you lose your sword.”

She huffs, her cheeks kissing pink at losing her edge in front of Jon—she figured that would happen, that’s why she wasn’t keen on the idea for him to observe her training in the first place. She stashes her sword where she usually does as Jon turns to speak to Leo.

“I would like to watch you with her next time, see if I can offer any advice.”

Leo bristles at that, Andrea can see it in the way his shoulders tighten. She can tell he’s biting his tongue on saying something he’ll regret, something along the lines of _is my training not satisfactory?_ but doesn’t.

Instead, “Of course, your Grace.”

If Jon was expecting a different response, he doesn’t show it. He’s not trying to intentionally insult Leo but it’s no secret that he’s an excellent swordsman. She can see his reasoning when wanting to offer what he can to someone he cares for.

“If you’re done for the day I’d like to steal her.” He reaches an arm out to hover along her lower back though his eyes remain on Leo.

His gaze shifts to how close they’re getting and Leo clears his throat, forces a smile, “She’s all yours.” His words are taut like rope around his neck.

Jon hums and nods his head towards Leo before guiding her towards the horse stables. Andrea sighs, glancing back at her friend before they approach the same black steed she’s ridden before.

“You didn’t have to do that.” She tells him as he tightens the reins on the horse. “Leo is completely capable of teaching me how to fight with a sword.”

He runs his hand over the horse’s mane, “I suppose we’ll see.”

Andrea sighs out his name in a tone that’s meant to scold him and he pauses, nodding to himself before he looks at her.

“I’m not particularly fond of the way he looks at you.”  

She smiles gently, “And that somehow has to do with sword fighting?”

He grins, slow and easy over his shoulder before he quickly mounts the horse, adjusting himself and pulling on the reigns so the creature doesn’t move. “I’m sure it had something to do with it at the time.”

Andrea shakes her head as she watches him on the horse, wondering if she can somehow talk him out of coming to her next training session with Leo but she doubts it. He reaches his hand down to her, intent on pulling her up behind him.

“Oh no, once was enough for me.”

Jon laughs and steadies the horse for a moment but doesn’t stop reaching for her, “Come on, I want to show you something. Very short ride.”

“We can’t walk?”

“We have to get you over this fear of riding horses that you’ve somehow developed.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Leo to teach me that as well,” She teases, looking up at him, fluttering her eyelashes.

He easily scoops her up, damn him, by using the momentum of the horse moving forward and sets her down right in front of him. She’s side straddling the horse, her arms instantly grabbing onto Jon so she doesn’t fall off, even though she knows he already has her and wouldn’t let that happen.

She glares at him, “Not fair Jon Snow.”

“Aye, but worth it.” He smiles, leaning forwards to capture her lips in a kiss.

Andrea isn’t aware that they’re moving until they pull apart; all Jon’s plan for sure, her distraction a key element in making it out of Winterfell and into the snowy woods. They’re not riding as fast as last time, she can easy sit sideways and not fear the danger of falling off.

“Where are we going?” She asks after a few minutes, the horse pausing near a creek.

It’s completely frozen over from the weather, beautiful in the way tree branches lean towards it, heavy with snow. She muses that in the sun, surrounded by green and leaves and rushing water that it’s quite a peaceful place. The silence of winter intends to take that away, muffle it, choke the beauty right out of it—but it’s still lovely, even like this.

Jon moves to get off the horse, his boots crunching the snow upon impact. He reaches for her, his hands wrapping around her waist and lifting her to the ground. He then smiles and takes one of her hands after tying the horse to a nearby tree.

“Thought it’d be nice to get away from Winterfell for a little. As much as I love being home…it’s felt rather…”

He doesn’t need to explain, Andrea understands. “Suffocating.” She whispers. “Yes.”

Jon walks down the path of the creek and she follows, ducking under halfway fallen trees and watching her step around mounds of deep snow. He keeps a hold of her hand, tugging her towards something he knows from memory, something that reminds her of when she recognized the woods around her old home.

They finally stop partially down the creek at a gathering of broken trees and wood against the ground, almost creating a misshapen square and overtop a sheet, tied down with rope. It’s worn and has holes, some of it flapping in the soft wind working its way through the woods.

“I used to come here when I was younger, with Rob and Arya.” He smiles, pulling the cloth back, looking inside as if he expects to see younger versions of himself and his siblings—innocent, happy…together. “We used to hide here, play. Rob would always get me into trouble with our mother.” His smile fades slightly, “She never stayed angry with him though, had enough charm to get him out of almost anything.”

Jon looks up at her and even though his eyes are sad, she can sense the fondness in his voice. He wanted to bring her here, to share this with her even though it’s a little painful.

“I wanted you to see this because you shared part of your home with me, even though most of it was gone and wasn’t as you remembered.”

Andrea smiles softly and kneels into the snow, peeking under the fabric as Jon holds it up. It’s cramped but a perfect space for three little kids to hide…she can see the appeal, looking up through some of the holes in the sheet to see the trees and sky.

She then eyes a cask of wine in the corner and lets out a soft laugh, looking over her shoulder at Jon. “You intend to get me drunk?”

He smirks, “Just something to keep us warm. You’re lucky I didn’t bring ale.”

She scrunches her nose and sits inside the hideout, Jon crawling in next to her. Both of them barely fit and so she moves to seat herself between his legs as he leans back against the stump of a tree. She settles against his chest, her head falling to his shoulder to look up through the holes in the sheet at the sky. A shiver runs down her spine from sitting on the cold, hard ground, but it’s oddly comforting being in a place Jon was when he was younger. She feels connected to him knowing that they were, at one point, both in these woods—never knowing or understanding that their paths would cross years later.

Jon sips directly from the cask before passing it to her to do the same, the wine sweet and heavy in her mouth. She hums as it warms her body when she swallows, and she turns her head so that her nose and lips brush his neck.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

He takes another sip from the cask, a soft sigh tumbling from his lips before he brushes a kiss over her forehead. “I love you.”

A smile instantly breaks out onto her face because this is the first time she’s heard it come from him; it’s not an encouraged response. She nuzzles her nose against his jawline which draws his attention to her, a soft laugh leaving his lips.

“You knew that, didn’t you?” He jokes, kissing the tip of her nose.

“I had an inkling.” She takes the cask from him, having another sip, before repeating the same words he said to her the first time she told him she loved him, “And I you.”

Jon presses his forehead against hers before they kiss and his mouth tastes of sweet wine and of home.

\--

Andrea sighs, running a hand through her hair as she lifts up another cask of ale to carry out into the dining hall. Dinner is in full swing; one last round of refilling drinks should be all that’s required of her tonight before she checks to see if Lady Sansa needs her for anything. She still likes to offer, even though she usually declines her services.

She pauses at the entrance to the kitchen, holding the cask against her body as her eyes glance around the room. Though as her sight falls on Jon’s table…he seems to be in a deep conversation with Ser Davos and Lady Sansa. Her stomach flutters—did Ser Davos find something about Grandshire? Letters perhaps? Is the danger that’s plaguing her dreams finally over?

She chews on her lower lip, setting the cask down on a nearby table but then picks it back up. As much as she wants to ask Jon if Ser Davos has made any progress…it’s not her place to approach him right now, not in front of all his men. If something happens, Jon will tell her, and she has to respect the privacy he often gives her in telling her matters that don’t involve her.

Even though she wants to cross to meet him, questions burning the bottom of her ribcage as she watches Jon get up from the table and follow Ser Davos out of the room. She turns, intent on heading back into the kitchen, and bumps straight into—

“Leo,” She sighs, straightening her posture and holding the cask tightly. “How many times have I told you not to do that?”

“My apologies.” He says but he’s not looking at her, instead glancing over her shoulder before his eyes flicker to where most of Jon’s men are eating, paying no attention to them. “I need to speak with you.”

She tilts her head, frowning a little at the fact that he won’t connect eyes with her. He seems…upset, jumpy even. She has half a mind to ask if Ghost has bothered him again; she’s never seen him so on edge.

“Alright,” She says, “Find me in a few minutes? I have to finish serving ale and—”

Leo grabs her arm, finally matching her gaze with his own. His eyes are cold, they send ice straight down her spine. He’s _scared,_ she realizes, something has struck him down to the very bone. She swallows, his grip almost bruising, but he doesn’t release her.

“No, now,” He swallows, clearing his throat as he registers the soft panic on her face, dropping her arm. “Please.”

Andrea nods, setting the cask down on a table and following him into a hallway. She doesn’t understand why they can’t talk in the kitchen until they move down the hall and turn the corner—he wants silence, obscurity, he wants to talk with her alone. But being with him in this space just makes her feel exposed, alarm twisting up her spine and settling in her bones. She’s not fond of how shaky he is, it’s putting her on edge; something terrible must have happened for him to approach her like this.

 “Leo, talk to me,” She says gently, “What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand over his face, so many thoughts passing over his eyes. She wants to tell him to calm down, to take a breath, to collect himself before he speaks but she doesn’t think that will help. She does touch him, a tender hand on his arm to try and encourage him to take a moment. Leo looks down at her touch, swallowing almost audibly.

A sudden laugh shakes out of him and his hand falls to hers, squeezing her fingertips. “I should have told you sooner.” He traces her pointer finger with his thumb. “How I feel about you…”

Andrea feels like squirming out of his touch, an unsettling sensation crawling into her belly. Jon was right, he was always right about how Leo felt about her—he called it from the very beginning, something she had never been able to see herself.

Now, with Leo in front of her, saying it out loud—she’s not sure how she missed it.

“Leo…” She trails off, not sure what to say. His touch feels like it’s somehow _burning_ her, heat seeping into her skin. She wants to tell him to stop, to not add anything further. It’s not too late, they can pull apart, leave one another, forget this ever happened.

Meet one another in the courtyard tomorrow and pretend.

“I need to say this.” She shakes her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I think there’s always been a part of me, even when I first met you, that loved you.”

“Leo, you shouldn’t do this.” She says suddenly, pulling her hand away from him.

She thinks about Jon, about her relationship with him, about _his_ feelings on Leo that are hanging on by a thread each passing day. He already isn’t fond of him, of how Leo _looks_ at her—and while he wouldn’t hinder her decision, he certainly wouldn’t approve of her continuation to train with him after an admittance like this.

“Aye, you’re probably right,” She opens her eyes to him smiling soft, tugging from the corners of his mouth. “But out of all the things I regret, this is not one of them.”

He leans forward and captures her lips, slow and gentle, his one hand cupping her face. She feels shock wrap around her form, stilling her, her eyes closing on instinct. Andrea is sure that the kiss only lasts for a few moments but it feels a lot longer than that when he pulls away, his face flushed, lips a soft pink.

Before she can say anything else, he’s pulling away from her and heading down the hall. She touches her lips, a wall of emotion hitting her hard against her chest, an ache between her ribs forcing tears to her eyes.

She doesn’t understand why that feels like goodbye.

\--

The walk to Jon’s chambers seems longer than usual. Andrea feels as if she’s swimming through a fog; hazy and suffocating, Leo’s words rushing through her head as the memory of his kiss remains on her lips. She doesn’t want to discuss this but she remembers the look on Jon’s face when she kept that letter to herself; how their relationship wouldn’t work without honesty.

He’s not wrong, but it oddly feels like a betrayal to tell him.

She sighs, running a hand over her face as she pauses outside Jon’s doors, hovering between knocking and going to find Leo. She’s never wanted to feel as if she had to choose; she wants to go back before the hallway, before dinner, to a courtyard one day where he was teaching her how to keep her footing, how to stand sideways in order to swing her sword.

She’s learned so much about balance and yet that’s the very last thing she feels as she knocks on the wooden doors in front of her.

A moment passes before Ser Davos opens and allows her to enter over the threshold. Andrea meets Jon’s eyes as she walks in, the door closing behind her. The echo seems to follow her around the room, flames flickering in the hearth as Davos moves to stand near Jon.

“M’lady.” His voice is…grave. Her eyes flicker between the two men but Jon’s face gives nothing away. Except…the normal affection and warmth that are usually coming off him in waves are smothered with apprehension, worry.

“Something’s happened.” She says, voice soft, her hand moving to cover her mouth. The pads of her fingers brush against her skin, remembering Leo’s touch on her—she doesn’t recall him tasting like anything even though now it feels like ash is in her mouth, resting heavily on her tongue.

Jon frowns, concern crinkling between his eyebrows. “That’s why I was about to send Ser Davos to find you.”

Andrea swallows, pausing for a moment. But…Jon can’t know about what’s happened with Leo, there’s no way. It’s then she realizes that they’re not talking about the same thing…no, something else has happened. Is it as she suspected? They know who was writing to Grandshire?

This should be a sign of reprieve, right—that pressure finally removed from her shoulders, grinding her into the dirt?

“Jon…” She trails off, encouraging him to continue.

He takes a step towards her, handing her a set of opened letters. “Ser Davos discovered who had been conspiring with Grandshire.”

She looks up at Ser Davos before taking the letters, relief washing over her. _Thank gods._ She quickly opens one of them, her eyes absorbing though not really reading any of the words on the parchment. Shouldn’t they be more pleased at finding these? They can finally get to the bottom of this, she can move on from feeling on edge all the time.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jon glances at Ser Davos, “They were found in Leo’s things, m’lady.”

Her thumb brushes over the signature at the bottom before his words register. Andrea freezes, her entire body turning to stone as she looks up at Jon and the letters tumble from her hands. She stares at him, unblinking, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. _No,_ this can’t be right.

Not her Leo.

He wouldn’t _do_ that, he would never do that to her. She knows him. She knows his smile and his unspoken words when his shoulders tense or when he tilts his head at her, she knows his hands and exactly how he sounds when he’s had too much ale with the softest of blushes on his cheeks. She knows how he stands when holding a sword, how much he _cares_ for her from wanting her to learn how to protect herself, he _loves…_

“No, this can’t be right.”

Jon swallows, gently approaching her. There are many emotions playing on his face, controlled anger clenching at his jaw, sympathy swimming in his eyes as he reaches to touch her. “Ser Davos made sure,” He pauses, his hand closing around her arm, “ _I_ made sure.”

She doesn’t accept that, trying to pull away from him. He won’t allow her to. “Someone must have planted these, trying to frame him. It can’t be him.”

Frustration rolls through his shoulders, she can see it, but he takes in a deep breath through his nose before speaking to her. He has to know what this means, how hard this is for her, how she’s struggling to accept that this is even right.

_It can’t be. It has to be a mistake._

“Why, because he loves you?”

“Yes,” She screams, panic and despair clutching at her from the inside. “Because he loves me.” Tears slip down her cheeks as she looks at him, her hand covering her mouth as an ugly sob rips from her throat.

Jon brings her into his chest, an arm wrapping around her waist while the other rests against her hair, his hand cupping the back of her head. Her face rests against his shoulder, emotion spilling from her, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

“It can’t be him.” She chokes out, voice muffled from being pressed against him.

He shakes his head, his hand stroking through her long hair, his lips brushing over her temple, “Shh.”

Jon squeezes her, his hand working pressured circles down her back. Her conversation with Leo flashes through her mind, the way he pulled her into the hallway, the _look_ in his eyes as he told her he loved her—with such desperation, panic. His intentions weren’t to finally express how he felt, he was…he was saying goodbye because he _knew_ what Ser Davos found and that it was only a matter of time until Jon knew too.

“How _could_ he?” She tugs on his shirt as if it’ll help ground her. She doesn’t expect Jon to answer, it’s more for herself or to Leo who isn’t here and would he have a real response to her question anyways?

Her knees are shaking, her body barely able to hold itself up. There’s a sharp pain in her chest, working its way down, _clutching_ her stomach in its grip. It reminds her…it reminds her of that dream she kept having.

_a knife slides into her gut, her mouth filling with blood as she looks down at the hand holding the hilt—she knows those hands._

_Her eyes glance up, trying to find a figure, a face,_ anything _in the darkness but there’s nothing. The knife plunges deeper—_

The realization crashes down on her again, the universe once again trying to warn her. She’d had that dream so many nights, so many times she woke up with phantom pains, holding onto her stomach where no sword wound was. She recognized the hands, the hands that had usually held a sword when she was with him.

Leo. Of course it was Leo.

A soft whimper leaves her lips, her hand squeezing the fabric on top of her midsection, her legs buckling beneath her.

Jon moves their bodies, picking her up to move to his bed before kneeling in front of her as he sits her down. He presses a kiss her head and looks over his shoulder, “Davos.”

That’s all he has to say and Ser Davos excuses himself, quietly leaving the room. His hands are constantly on her, never letting go. She wipes her face and even though she tries, she can’t stop trembling, her breath hiccupping in her chest.

How could Leo do something like this? Did he intend on using her when he learned of her relationship with Jon? Was it not planned like that? He couldn’t have been pretending to be her friend…it couldn’t have _all_ been a lie?

Could it?

“I didn’t want to cause you this pain.” Jon says, his hands resting on her thighs. As soon as her hands fall to her lap he holds onto them.

“It’s not your doing.” She sniffles, chewing hard on her lower lip.

They sit in silence for a moment, Jon unsure of what to say. She’s never known him to be like this—he always seems so calculated, controlled, sure of his words, his actions. Not now. Her thoughts wander to Grandshire, his hold on her, her eyes meeting Leo’s in the crowd, how scared she’d been, how _angry_ he was at her distress.

She shakes head, her thumb brushing over small scars on Jon’s hands, distracting herself from having to say anything. He pulls back from her just to retrieve one of the letters she’s dropped to the floor.

“I need you to look at this.”

She doesn’t want to but knows that she must, her eyes flickering to the parchment Jon sets on her lap. His fingers guide her gaze to the bottom, pointing at the signature—

It takes her a moment, some parts of the letter sticking out to her: _The girl often outside, unguarded… no harm should come to her…your true battle is with the Bastard King—_

It’s signed _Leonard Lannister._

“But…” Andrea trails off, confusion crinkling her forehead. “Leo’s last name is Lasko.”

“No,” Jon says carefully. “I think not.”

Was everything about Leo a lie? Andrea closes her eyes, a wave of nausea washing over her. Was Leo nothing as he told her? Was he not from Bear Island, under Lady Mormont—or had this been a long gamble in eventually ending up at Winterfell? How long was he at Bear Island before Jon requested Lady Mormont’s help? Before he came to be here?

Before he came to know her?

“He’s a spy.” She says softly.

Jon sighs, “Honestly, I’m not surprised that the Lannisters would send someone to lay low, report back, even try something like Grandshire.” He pauses, his thumb pressing against her wrist, “But I am surprised it’s Leo, given how he feels about you.”

She laughs suddenly, her eyes opening to look at Jon. “Is that not a lie as well?”

He holds her gaze for a moment before shaking his head, “I suspect that’s the only honest thing about him.”

Andrea swallows, her throat tight as tears well in her eyes again. She shakes her head, her lower lip quivering as a tear slips down her cheek. Jon is quick to wipe it away, his touch lingering on her cheek, his thumb brushing over her jawline.

“I have to deal with this.” He says slowly, almost careful, the implication between the syllables of his words.

She knows what that means.

_“He knew who I was.”_

_“And whoever told him will be found and dealt with.”_

“You have to kill him.” Her eyes find Jon’s, studying them for a moment, trying to look for…something hidden in the depths. She knows what he has to do, it’s not a question. As King, he has that obligation—to himself, to her, to his men that he fights for, to _he who passes the sentence shall swing the sword._

And yet, a part of her wants to beg him not to.

“Can we not use him?” She argues weakly, “Flip him?”

Jon is already shaking his head, standing from the floor. He had to know this was coming, right? Even after what Leo’s done, he was still her friend, she still cares for him.

“See what he knows and send him back to the Lannisters? Have him report to you…”

“He’s given me no choice.” He speaks over her, crushing the tiny amount of hope she has with the heel of his boot. “I can’t allow him to live for what he’s done against the North. Against you.”

She doesn’t know what to do; she doesn’t know what to feel _._ All Andrea can do is nod her head; the only thing she _does_ know is that Jon must do what he has to…and that she’s powerless to stop it.


	12. Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! Thanks for reading.

She learns that Leo tries to run but he doesn’t get very far before he’s captured. He must not have left after speaking with her, though, she isn’t sure why he’d stick around any longer than he had to. Was he contemplating discussing his side of things with Jon? Did he want to see if he could reason with him?

Andrea thought he’d be long gone, maybe on his way back to the other Lannisters, seeking refuge even though he failed.

He’s been in the place where Ramsay used to keep his hounds for nearly a week—that grungy dungeon made of cold steel and mud. She closes her eyes against the shiver that works its way down her spine every time.

Why is it _taking so long?_ Is Jon waiting for her to speak to him? To give herself some closure? Part of her wishes this sentence was over already, even though she’s not sure how that would make her feel either and she hasn’t thought about talking with Jon about it. She hasn’t spent time with him in the past few days, or nights. He’s sensing that she needs space and gives it to her.

Andrea doesn’t mean to be distant with him, that’s the last thing she wants. It’s just…she doesn’t know how to talk to him. In fact, she doesn’t feel like talking to _anyone_.

 “You have to let him go.”

She turns at the voice, seeing Lady Sansa approaching her and leaning against the railing overlooking the courtyard. She was so deep in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard her coming.

“Beg pardon?” Andrea asks, even though she knows her intentions.

“Your friend,” Sansa clarifies, “You have to let him go.”

Heat bristles up her spine at what feels like an accusation—she knows what this must look like to Jon, Sansa, other people of Winterfell. People know of her relationship with Leo, how they care for one another; have seen them practice swordsmanship time and time again in the very spot they’re overlooking.

But she won’t let that change what must be done. She knows what has to happen…and she doesn’t blame Jon for that.

The only one to blame is Leo.

“With all due respect, Lady Sansa,” She says carefully but her words are steel, “Do not presume to tell me what I must do.”

The Lady of Winterfell hums softly, not quite approving of her response but appreciating the fire in Andrea’s tone. A smile tugs at the ends of her mouth before she licks her lips, her hands resting on the railing, “I see you’re not so hesitant anymore to share your thoughts with me.”

She sighs, running a hand over her face before closing her eyes a moment. She has a relationship with Jon but that doesn’t give her permission to speak any way she chooses, especially to Sansa Stark. Andrea should still be careful about the words that leave her mouth.

“My apologies, m’lady.” She’s just…so _tired_ of how she presents herself, the effort it takes in deciding what kind of person she’s going to be, how others see her. Sometimes she misses the soothing blanket of being invisible.

“Don’t, I think we finally see one another. Honestly.” She turns towards her a little as she talks, “This must be incredibly hard for you with Leo being your friend.”

She swallows down words that bubble at the back of her throat...she doesn’t want to cry, not again, she’s shed enough tears over this. Andrea wishes that her immediate reaction wasn’t to question why Sansa is checking in on her—should she presume this is some sort of trick? Does she actually care? Did Jon ask her to do this? She’s having trouble reading her…and she can’t help but question intentions as of late.

“I’ll be alright.” She tells Lady Stark, not willing to divulge too much at once.

And yet, it’s not just that, she truly is unsure of what else to say. Her emotions about this are complex, complicated—every time she feels like she might have some idea, she spirals into another loop of uncertainty and self-doubt. She’s still working on it…she just hopes she’s able to figure it out before Leo’s execution.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to see Jon.”

“He was with Ser Davos in the dining hall, last time I saw him.”

Andrea nods, turning to head back inside but Sansa’s next words make her pause.

“He loves you,” She adds, their eyes meeting briefly. “But do not ask him to choose between you and the North.”

She holds her gaze for a moment but doesn’t dignify that with a response. Andrea would never ask Jon to do that for her, regardless of how confusing her emotions are about this whole thing. About Leo. She understands what the King of the North must do and she intends on making it through this just as she’s always done.

She recalls talking to Sansa about plants one day in her bedchambers, how she’d pick it for her house’s sigil. Andrea thinks now how accurate that feels; because nature, no matter how often it’s burned, cut down, destroyed—underneath all that desiccation, buds are capable of sprouting beneath.

Revitalized no matter what personal hell it must go through—just like her.

\--

She doesn’t find Jon in the dining hall like Sansa said, nor does she find him in his chambers. She wanders the halls of Winterfell, makes her rounds until she ends up back in the courtyard. Andrea wonders if he’s out with Ghost or in a meeting she’s not privy to. She swallows down bile as she thinks about Leo, about Jon being down there with him, discussing when his day of judgment will come.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose before allowing her eyes to close. She just needs a moment, just one.

“He’s in the crypts.”

Andrea turns to look at Arya as she reaches the top of the steps from the courtyard.

When she doesn’t reply the smaller Stark continues, “Jon. He’s in the crypts below Winterfell, if you’re looking for him.”

Perceptive girl. “Thank you. I’ll just wait for him, I shouldn’t be down there.” It wasn’t right for her to be in such a sacred place that’s not for her family—Kings and Lords of Winterfell were buried down there.

“You should go see him, he misses you.”

A spot warms in Andrea’s chest at the sentiment; to think of how much she misses Jon as well. This invisible barrier between them, this wall that she’s accidently put up in hopes to breathe and settle her confusing emotions. All it’s done is make her feel cold—she misses his touch, his lips, the way he makes her feel.

But…

Andrea shakes her head, chewing on her lower lip. Arya sighs very dramatically and looks to the sky before literally _pushing_ her towards the steps and the crypt.

“I’m a Stark, am I not?”

She laughs softly, moving swiftly so Arya doesn’t have to force her. Also, she’d rather not accidently fall down the steps by tripping on her dress, “Is that a trick question?”

Arya grins, good natured and warm, just like Jon’s. “You’d know if it was,” They pause outside the entrance to the crypt, “As a Stark, I give you permission.”

Andrea licks her lips, glancing down into the darkness—she sees a glimmer of gold, orange; a flame lighting someone’s way below. She draws her cloak closer to her as a draft of cold wind whips around her neck, chilling her as it kisses her skin.

“That’s what you’re waiting for isn’t it?”

She scoffs a little under her breath; _is_ that what she’s waiting for? Someone telling her it’s okay if she descends into the crypts of Winterfell to see Jon or is it something else…is there another reason why she doesn’t want to go down there? Arya reads her like a book, clever as she is, tilts her head to look at her until she catches her gaze.

“No need to fear the dead down there,” She smiles gently, “Or are you more afraid of the living?”

Arya leaves her then to make her own decision…and Andrea paces a few steps back and forth before she finally decides to do something. She carefully walks down the steps, her fingers brushing against the stone to guide her way since it gets darker and darker as she goes. She turns the corner and pauses at seeing Jon, her eyes adjusting to the little light that’s present.

Ghost lifts his head at the sound but doesn’t growl since he knows it’s her. Instead, he makes a soft whining noise, which makes Jon turn to look in her direction.

“Andrea.” He seems surprised by her presence and her cheeks instantly dust pink.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be down here, I…” She hopes he isn’t angry at her intruding…she should have just waited in the courtyard like she wanted to. Arya, ever the troublemaker.

“No, it’s alright,” Jon outstretches his hand, intending for her to take it into her own. “Come here.”

She lets out a slow breath of relief that she might be unwelcome and walks towards him, easily taking his hand like it’s the most nature thing for her body to do. He offers a soft smile, almost lost in the shadows of the crypt.

Andrea comes to stand in front of a stone statue of Ned Stark, an incredible likeness carved out, almost as if she could reach out and caress his face. She squeezes Jon’s hand, her gaze falling to other statues amongst them, observing through cold and unfeeling eyes.

“This is…quite something.” Her voice is soft but it echoes down here into every crevice.

Jon hums, affection clear in his tone, “You mean it’s eerie.”

She opens her mouth, shaking her head, “No!” She doesn’t want him to think she’s somehow insulting his ancestors. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s teasing her before she sighs, swaying her body gently into his. “I wish my family could have had something like this. Maybe I’d know more about them if they had.”

He runs his thumb over her knuckles, glancing at the stone figures around them, his eyes settling on his father. “It’s a nice reminder that they’re still here, amongst us,” He swallows. “But also that they’re unchanging and cold as stone. They’ll always just be…this.”

Andrea chews on her lower lip, gently touching the arm of Ned Stark. “The ones we love are still around, think you once said something similar to me, didn’t you?”

“Using my own words against me.” Jon draws her closer, brushing his lips over the bridge of her nose before pressing a gentle kiss against her lips. “A little unfair.”

It feels a little odd to be close to him down here, to kiss in front of Ned Stark’s statue. A soft blush covers her cheeks and works along her neck before she tugs him towards the stairs. Words bubble at the top of her throat, itching to get out of her mouth and as much as she wants to stifle them—maybe they’ll be easier to say if she’s not looking directly at him.

“I’m sorry I’ve been distant.”

He squeezes her hand, making her pause on the steps. Jon waits until she slowly turns to look at him before, “He was your friend.”

She swallows, almost embarrassed… “He still _is_ my friend,” A soft laugh claws up her throat, which feels swollen with emotion that she doesn’t want to admit to feeling, “Is that terrible? That I still care about him after all he’s done?”

“No,” He shakes his head.

She doesn’t know why she expects him to judge her, like he won’t try to empathize with where she’s coming from. She supposes she still feels ashamed despite multiple people telling her that they understand.

“I’ve been betrayed by friends, by allies, and by men I thought respected me,” He tells her gently, “It’s never easy.”

She swallows and looks down at their hands, clasped loosely, she almost feels revived just from his touch alone. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away.”

He doesn’t agree or disagree with her as they ascend the steps, pausing at the top, but he does say, “You know what must be done. I was trying to give you time to say your goodbyes but I can’t hold off much longer.”

Andrea allows her eyes to close for a moment, drawing a soft breath into her lungs. He’s right, she knows he’s right. “When?”

“Tonight.”

Her wide eyes meet Jon’s, as though she expects him to suddenly change his mind. His gaze remains fixed, determined; this is it.

“In front of everyone?” She asks and _hates_ that her voice cracks. She’s so tired of crying—she’s not even sure there’s any tears left.

Jon glances into the courtyard before shaking his head, his hand rubbing her arm absently, his touch natural and organic as if there was never any distance between them.

“My men will be informed tonight but the sentence itself will be very private,” He pauses, “For you.”

Andrea wants to ask him so many questions at once about respect and honor, if Jon’s men will accept a private judgment, if this is something he’s discussed with them or…if he’s just doing this for her. Either way, she doesn’t ask.

Instead she leans over and presses a soft kiss to his cheek as if it’s the only thing she has energy for.

“I wish to speak with him.”

\--

Jon walks with her to the cages, her maroon dress dragging in snow and mud, silence singing between them. It’s cold and damp, no place for a dog let alone a man. As she approaches the steel separating her and Leo, she wonders how he’s lived down here for the better part of a week. She knows Jon is making sure he’s fed, given water, a few extra blankets—almost ironic that he wants to keep him alive and well just to kill him.

She feels dizzy as she pauses in front of the last cage and Jon nods to a few of his men that were standing nearby, keeping their eyes on Leo, to leave them. Andrea tilts her head, glancing inside, trying to find him amongst the darkness and grime.

“Leo?” She whispers, her hand touching one of the steel bars, looking for any movement within.

He steps to the forefront, out of the shadows, his gaze sharp as he looks at her. An intake of air stops short in her lungs as she takes in what’s become of her friend—slight scruff on his face, incredibly dirty, hair knotty like a bird’s nest. It’s almost as if shadows are hugging him, making him appear frailer than he is, like he could be snapped in half.

He was once so handsome and strong…it’s nothing compared to what he looks like now; she feels like she’s gazing upon a different person.

But she knows those eyes.

“Go away, Andrea.” There’s no malice in his tone, instead he sounds incredibly tired.

“You can’t mean that.” She whispers, wants to say so much more than _just_ that. He has to understand that this is probably the last time they’ll speak to one another.

He scoffs, the tip of his boot absently kicking at the dirt. “I don’t want your pity, you don’t know me as you think you do.”

She knows him. She knows him perhaps better than he wishes and that’s why he wants her gone. Andrea stands her ground, straightening her shoulders. She cares for him despite everything and he knows that, on some level, he has to. She’s in this conversation even though she’s tried to avoid it…she’s not backing down now.

“Leo…” Andrea tries again, more strength in her voice than before. “Leo _Lannister.”_

That seems to get his attention, his gaze snaps to her own, face hard as if carved from stone. Controlled anger rests along his jaw, breathing even as he glances at Jon before fixing his eyes on her again.

“You tried to have me killed.” She says, the fire in his stare kindling something deep in her, embers that had been dowsed with her tears.

“I had an obligation to fulfill.” His voice isn’t as passionate as she assumed it would be; it sounds automatic, a reflexed response, something he has to say.

“And what about me?” She snaps, her voice echoing in the dank place, almost too shrill to her own ears. “No obligation to me? Or our friendship? I thought…”

Leo shakes his head, doesn’t want her to say it _I thought you loved me._ He looks at her with incredible pity, painful in a way, something nasty and cruel on the tip of his tongue before it reaches out and strikes her.

“You are a foolish, naïve girl.” He spits, gripping the bars of the cage in front of him. “You were an easy target, nothing more.”

Andrea swallows down the emotion clogging her throat. She knows he can’t mean that, not after everything he’s done or said. Not with how he speaks to her with his eyes, love and affection still clinging to his irises regardless of the words leaving his mouth.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you,” He sneers, “Go away.”

Jon bristles; Andrea can see it in the corner of her eye. He’s heard enough, tired of standing by just as silent support. “Do not make me regret bringing her down here.” His voice is calm, even, but there’s a threat there laced between the syllables.

He knows, just as Andrea, that Leo is purposely trying to push her away but there’s only so much that he’s willing to put up with. Jon is doing them the favor, buying time, letting them say goodbye but he won’t stand for insults either.

Leo just laughs, a harsh sound gritting against her ears. “Or you’ll do what?” He asks the King of the North; eyes cold and unfeeling and…dead. “You’ll kill me?”

Her heart seizes in her chest, terribly painful to the point where her hand hovers over her sternum. Andrea looks away and tries to focus her energy into breathing, slow and even, “Leo, please don’t do this.”

Jon suddenly reaches through the cage and grabs Leo’s shirt, _yanking_ him forward until he bangs into the bars.

“ _Jon_.” Andrea protests, voice sharp, but he doesn’t stop as Leo struggles against his grip.

“Look at me,” Jon waits and only continues when he has Leo’s attention, “She wants to say goodbye.” Andrea swallows thickly and grips part of her cloak, as if it’ll make her feel less dizzy. “If you don't have enough honor or respect for yourself, or for me,” He pauses, “...at least have it for her.”

He lets Leo go, taking a few steps back from the cage. Andrea watches Leo straighten his shirt, running a hand through his messy hair before she gently touches Jon’s arm.

“Jon, could we have a few minutes?” He looks like he’d rather do anything but leave her, “Please.”

The King of the North lets out a soft sigh before nodding his head, walking outside to the courtyard. She watches him pause there, hovering, giving her space but close by if she needs anything.

Andrea licks her lips, silence wrapping around them like smoke, suffocating her lungs. She wants to ask so many questions yet the words die on her tongue. It doesn’t matter why Leo’s done these things; he’s still here in this cage, his life literally slipping through his fingers.

“Did you mean what you said to me?” She asks softly. _I think there’s always been a part of me, even when I first met you, that loved you._ “In the hallway?”

Leo holds her gaze for a long moment before he tears his eyes away, looking to the mud, swallowing so he doesn’t have to speak. He tells her everything just from that gesture, regardless of the words that might come out of his mouth.

“I'd rather you remember me as I was.” He shakes his head. “Not this.”

That carves a hole directly in the middle of her chest, burning, searing, as if a hot poker has run her straight through. She’s trembling and it takes her a moment to realize it’s not from the damp or the cold.

“I want you to be honest with me. You owe me that, if nothing else.”

Leo sighs, turning to sit down in the cage against the stone wall. His head falls back, eyes looking to the ceiling as if he’s commanding patience and concentration.

“The things you do for family,” He says softly, like that explains everything. And it almost does—Andrea can’t deny that if her parents or sister were still alive that she would do _anything_ for them, regardless of the cost, regardless of previous loyalties. “I was here to observe, report back...that’s it.” He runs a hand over his face.

“I never intended on using you, even after I learned about your involvement with the King. But somehow Cersei found out and I knew that you were a pressure point of Jon’s that I’d have to exploit.” Leo clears his throat, looking up to her from the ground. “Grandshire was never supposed to hurt you, I made that clear.”

“And you think that somehow makes everything okay? You betrayed the North.”

He sighs, closing his eyes for a breath. “I was never loyal to the North,” He finds her gaze again. “Only to you.”

Andrea shakes her head, the winter air skittering into her lungs as she takes a deep breath—like that will somehow ground her in this situation that feels so unreal. She’s lost so much, why did she expect that it would stop just because she’s come to live at Winterfell? Loss lives with her; it breathes with her lungs and travels in her bloodstream. She was foolish to think it’d ever be otherwise.

“But that’s where you’re wrong,” She whispers. How could this ever make _sense_ to Leo? How could he justify his actions that way? “I am part of the North just as much as the North is a part of me.”

Her response displeases him, but she’s not sure what he expects her to say. “It has nothing to do with the North. You’re loyal to _him.”_

“He is my King,” She says instantly. “Of course I’m loyal to him.” Andrea finds herself bristling under his gaze. She thought she knew him better than anyone else, but with the hourglass losing sand every moment she’s with him, she’s not so sure.

He can’t _assume_ to know her, not now, not after everything. He lost that right to their friendship with his betrayal. “Not that I’d expect you to understand anything about loyalty.”

It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it, the end of her tongue sharp like a knife. Leo’s eyes darken like a storm and he stands from his spot on the floor to approach her. It’s slow, like a spider twitching its way across a ceiling. Andrea swallows, tears her gaze away from him. While she meant the words she said, it didn’t come out quite as she intended. They did trust one another, once. It’s something that feels like forever ago, someone else’s life; a simple kitchen maid with a dead family and a desperate need to find someone she could depend on.

Leo had been that person.

“I don’t think we have anything else to say to one another.” He says, breaking her thoughts, his voice cold and disconnected.

Panic crawls up her windpipe, seizing her throat as she takes a step towards the cage and rests her hands on the damp metal. “Leo, please. These can’t be the last things we say to one another.”

His eyes are as unfeeling as the cold working its way into her numbing digits. He slowly sinks to the floor again, covered by a shadow so she can no longer see his face.

“I don’t want to leave you like this.” They’re running out of time but it seems the more dread she feels sinking between her bones the calmer he seems to appear.

A soft laugh leaves his throat but he doesn’t move from his position on the floor. “I’m not going to help you ease your conscience. If this is it, then let it be.”

Andrea shakes her head, “Please.”

“If you’re going to beg me, you might as well get on your knees.” He says suddenly, harsh and grating, his hackles going up. She’s vaguely aware that he’s trying to push her away again but what is she supposed to do?

Stand there? Wait for a moment that won’t come to pass? Because this is what Leo wants; he _wants_ to distance them so it makes everything easier for both their sakes. It takes her a few minutes to realize that this is it, it’s over; this is how they’ll end their friendship.

“Goodbye, Leo.” She whispers before tearing herself away from the cage, walking quickly so she doesn’t have a chance to change her mind. So that she doesn’t hear Leo if he calls out to her, wanting her back.

She’s made as much peace with this as she can but it doesn’t stop her legs from feeling weak as she emerges into the courtyard. Andrea doesn’t realize that she isn’t breathing until her lungs beg for oxygen. Her hand goes to her chest as she takes in a sharp breath, her knees buckling beneath her but she doesn’t hit the hard ground like she expects.

Jon is there, as he always is, catching her against his chest right before she crumbles. She’s vaguely aware of him pressing her closer, his arms wrapping around her to keep her steady, hand weaving its way through her long locks. She feels disconnected from her body, as if she’s watching all of this unfold from across the courtyard, her breathing coming in short and shallow as her hands white-knuckle Jon’s cloak.

“Breathe with me.” He instructs her gently, his one hand digging into her back between the knobs of her spine. He’s trying to ground her, to force her to into feeling his chest move against hers and mirror it.

“In and out.” He whispers.

In and out.

Andrea’s eyes flutter closed, her body slowly uncoiling against his as her face falls to his shoulder, turning towards the soft skin of his neck.

In and out.

She matches his pace and she’s not sure how long they stand there but eventually Jon pulls back from her and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, feather light, just enough to get her eyes to meet his.

“I’m truly sorry.”

Andrea knows; she can feel it in his touch, how he holds her, his lips brushing over her forehead and the gentleness of his words pressing into her skin.

Regardless of how she feels when she’s with him, this might be the first time those words bring no comfort to her.

\--

She argues with herself all day about Leo’s execution, about whether she should attend or not. Hours dwindle by and Jon gives her the space she needs to think. She’s been hiding in her room since this morning, as if the distance will somehow put literal space between her and what’s coming. She’s barely moved from her spot in front of the window, a view of greenery covered with falling snow, watching the occasional bird fly across the grey sky. Her stomach weakly protests against the fact that she hasn’t eaten anything since last night but she doesn’t think she’d be able to keep it down anyways if she did.

Andrea should be there, she _knows_ she should be there despite how she feels, despite of how her and Leo left things.

If anything, it’s for her own conscience, her own guilt, regardless of how wrong she knows that is.

It should have _nothing_ to do with her or how she feels. She should go for the Leo she thought she knew—which is how she finds herself standing in front of the doors to the courtyard, frozen, her hand outstretched to push them open.

Her fingers twitch and her arm falls to her side, her breathing a little unsteady as she swallows and runs a hand over her face.

“Pull yourself together,” She whispers to herself, pulling her shoulders back to stand a little taller than she feels. _He is a liar and a traitor, stop thinking about him as the friend you once knew._

A hand rests gently on her shoulder and she turns to see Ser Davos offering her a soft smile despite the dark circles under his eyes.

“Are you well, Lady Andrea?”

He looks so worn, tired beyond missing a good night’s rest. She feels as if she should be asking _him_ that. “As well as I can be.” When his hand moves from her shoulder, she takes it and squeezes briefly between her own before letting go. “I thought I could do this but now I’m not so sure.”

“I don’t think this decision was easy for anyone.” She knows that he mostly means Jon—that despite his loyalties and his obligation as King, the last thing he wants to do is hurt her.

“I don’t blame him,” She whispers, her voice sounds present and loud in the empty hallway even though she knows it’s the shadows and crevices playing tricks on her. “And I could never ask him to choose between me and Winterfell.”

Davos hums, opening the doors in front of them. “Because you’re afraid he wouldn’t choose you?”

The wood creaks from movement and it’s probably some sort of blessing that he’s found her here because she’s not sure if she could have opened those doors herself; just one more barrier between her and tonight stripped away. A burst of cold air mixed with snow flurries dance inside, making her shiver as it reaches the soft exposed parts of her neck.

She draws her cloak tighter around herself, her eyes adjusting to the fire lit courtyard creating an orange glow on the snow below. Andrea sees Jon move across the snow like a ghost, soundless and swift, towards where Leo is. There’s only two guards following closely behind, as protection, as silent support. Not a minute later, Jon is dragging Leo out into the center of the courtyard.

She closes her eyes a moment, taking a deep breath of winter air, the chill stinging her lungs. Ser Davos’ words ring in her ears, an unanswered statement. Afraid he wouldn’t choose her? An ironic laugh nearly bubbles at the top of her lungs, threatening to escape.

“No.” She swallows, her gaze fixed on the man in front of her. “Because I’m afraid he would.”

\--

A chopping block, Jon, Sansa, Ser Davos, two of Jon’s men, Arya, Andrea and Leo.

That’s all that fills the courtyard, the space painstakingly empty as Jon’s men force Leo to kneel in front of the block. She’s grateful that this is more private than usual, that Jon did this out of courtesy for her, but the openness feels like it could wrap its arms around and suffocate her.

Jon pulls Longclaw from his sheath and pauses, connecting eyes with Ser Davos as he comes to stand on the other side of the chopping block.

He clears his throat and announces into the courtyard, “Leonard Lannister,” His voice echoes into the space, a shiver coursing down her spine at hearing his real name. “Do you understand the crimes you are being charged with, in which the sentence is death?”

It must be a rhetorical question, Andrea isn’t sure who would reply to such a thing. And Leo doesn’t—his face is cold as stone, eyes unseeing, refusing to meet her own. She glances at the others present; at Sansa, at Arya, but they all share the same expression. They’re concentrated, eyes on Jon, Ser Davos and Leo, but there’s no... _empathy_ there _._ Should she feel foolish for expecting that? For wanting it for her friend, the person she once knew? They’re watching this as if it’s some sort of performance, something they’ve grown used to, as if death sits with them at the dinner table every night.

Andrea’s breathing is uneven, hands shaking, her fingers pressing against the bodice of her dress—for someone who’s had a lot of death and suffering in her life, this will _never_ feel normal to her.

When Leo says nothing Ser Davos continues, “Crimes against Winterfell and conspiracy to murder the King, which is treason.”

“Not only are you guilty for the crimes against the North, but against someone I love.” Jon adds and only then does Leo look at her, his eyes tracing over her face as if he’s picturing his hands doing the same thing.  “You put her in harm’s way, you betrayed her.”

Andrea swallows thickly, feels exposed, naked in front of him. In front of _everyone._ Regardless of eyes not being on her, she senses that everyone is quietly judging her or at least trying to read her emotions. She’s too tired to be anything other than an open book.

Let them read her, she doesn’t want to hide.

“Have you any last words to say?” The only sympathy she can see is coming from Jon and it’s for her, not Leo.

She holds her breath until it burns her lungs, makes her eyes water. Leo remains close-lipped, gritting his teeth, brow furrowed in anger. Will he say nothing? What were the last things they said to one another that weren’t unkind? When was the last time they were honest? She can’t remember.

Will he not say anything? Not even goodbye?

Leo swallows and turns towards Jon and nods…

And suddenly Jon’s men are forcing him to lay down, arms outstretched, neck against the block and oh _gods_ this is it. Her feet stutter forward though she can’t figure out why; it’s not like she’s going to stop this, she can’t. She wouldn’t.

“Leo…” She chokes out, begging almost.

“Look away,” Jon tells her gently, but it somehow feels disconnected in the freezing, night air, swept up in the glow of the torches.

She feels a hand on her shoulder—Arya, maybe? Or Sansa? She doesn’t look at them and she doesn’t look away.

It’s over before she has a chance to realize it’s happened. She hears the swift singing of Longclaw gliding through the air, the sickening _thump_ of the fuller hitting the wood because Leo’s _head_ is—

Andrea’s hand flies to her mouth and she stumbles back into someone. Blood, there’s so much blood for such a clean swing. It drips onto the white snow, staining it, it’s splattered against the leather of Jon’s men and Jon himself.

Sansa, she thinks, is talking to her, trying to guide her but time suddenly slows and bile crawls up her throat. She turns quickly, pulling away from her, from everyone, and vomits next to the stairs that lead up and away from the courtyard.

She coughs, stomach acid making her eyes burn. She wipes her mouth, knees shaking as she fights to remain upright. Andrea has never felt so dizzy in her life, the snow is spinning, her skin sweat kissed and hot to the touch.

She turns to look towards the group of people she was standing amongst, at Jon, but bodies are blurry. They’re moving towards her? Or is she imagining that? She sways on her feet, her world turning hazy around the edges—

Her eyes see blood, Leo’s lifeless body moved by Jon’s men, his head collected and put into a bag.

That’s when her legs give out from under her and she collapses sideways into the snow.

And then all she sees is darkness.


	13. Here With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! Thanks so much to everyone who read, reviewed and left kudos. Much appreciated!

Andrea stirs to something brushing against her forehead, a cool cloth that sends a shiver down her spine. Before her eyes open, her senses seem to ignite; her ears picking up the sounds of creaking wood and the crackling of flames in a hearth, her nose catching whiffs of herbs or oils, something calming that washes over her entire body.

She turns a little before she manages to open her eyes, gaze focusing in on Jon sitting next to her, cloth hovering in his hand. He smiles gently, something soft and intimate just for her, worry lines fading from his forehead and around his eyes. She wants to smooth them over with her thumbs, but she can’t get her limbs to move despite wanting them to.

 “How long have I been…” She trails off, her voice sounds odd to her ears from lack of use.

Jon licks his lips and dips the cloth into a bowl nearby and her nose catches a stronger scent now; lavender? Mixed with water and…something else, something she can’t quite put her finger on but smells familiar. Smells earthy and reassuring, soothing, feels like home. He squeezes excess back into the bowl before brushing the cloth over her forehead again.

“Almost a day.”

She sighs and lets her eyes close for a moment before, “Please tell me you haven’t been here this whole time.”

Andrea can hear the smile in his tone as he replies, “And here I thought you’d revel in the attention.”

A soft laugh climbs up her chest as she opens her eyes and turns her head to look at him, “You know I do but I _also_ know you have other things to do than…” She pauses, an amused crinkle forming between her eyes as she finally recognizes the other scent: frankincense, “Are you using herbs to soothe me?”

Jon says nothing but looks adorably guilty.

She shakes her head and sits up, albeit a little shakily, and leans back against the wall. “Thought you didn’t believe in any of that?”

His smile is contagious as he drops the cloth into the bowl, “Aye, but you do.”

Andrea holds his gaze, her hand moving to cup his cheek. Her thumb glides along the soft skin under his eye, the scruff on his jawline tickling her palm. Jon’s hand clasps hers on his face and draws it closer to his lips, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

They’re silent for a while, just touching one another, breathing one another in, taking advantage of the little private moments that have been given to them. Jon lets out a soft sigh, his breath brushing over her knuckles as he draws her hand in for another kiss.

Almost a day…she finds that hard to believe. This whole thing has felt like _years_ trapped under her skin. All this pain and suffering and betrayal and warnings…for what? What was she supposed to learn from all this? That the Red Woman had her reasons for sending her things in the first place? That she shouldn’t trust anyone for _how_ can she know who they truly are? Or maybe, within itself, _that_ was the message—that not everything had an explanation. That her mother, though not a witch, but much alike Melisandre trusted nature and sometimes just _knew_ things that others didn’t.

Maybe it was her mother this whole time, reaching through the Red Woman, looking out for her even after death and separation.

She’s not sure and maybe she never will be. All Andrea can do is trust that she’s alive and that things happen for a reason…and how she feels about Jon and the fact that this whole thing brought them closer together.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, closing her thoughts on the matter.

She doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or cry at the fact that this is _so_ like Jon, to apologize to her for something beyond his control. Andrea shakes her head and gently pulls her hand from his grasp, moves to brush it through his locks that are tied into a bun.

“You owe me no apologies,” She says softly, “Leo…” She swallows, his name like stones in her throat. “he made his own choices that are just that: his own, no one else’s.”

Jon nods and leans forward, pressing a kiss against her forehead and then the bridge of her nose before making it to her lips. His mouth is slow and purposeful against her own, his hand moving to cup the side of her face to anchor her to him, fingers playing idly with her hair.

“We burned the body,” Jon tells her as he pulls back, “But we scattered his ashes just outside of Winterfell, near a small stack of stones. You can visit him, say your goodbyes.”

The fact that Jon made sure all of Winterfell wasn’t present for the beheading, that he’s taken such good care of Leo down to his very ashes, giving her a place to visit him, a place to pray and say goodbye… This is more than she deserves, this is more than _Leo_ deserves.

“You’re a good King, Jon Snow,” She smiles, running her thumb along his lower lip. Andrea kisses his cheek, “And an even better man.”

\--

She receives another letter, on her bed, warm as if someone’s touch was left behind on the parchment…or as if it’s come directly out of flames—because she knows who it’s from before she opens it.

Her fingers graze along the outside of the letter, her eyes finding the melted candle wax at the bottom in the same shape as before. Part of her wants to crumble the letter up without reading it, toss it into the fire but curiosity wins out over anger.

_Andrea,_

_I write this with care and knowledge that you have no reason to trust me and that if you toss this letter into the fire without reading it, then so be it._

A soft laugh leaves her lips and she shakes her head, continuing,

_We don’t know one another well and I suspect we never will, but I wanted you to know that my letter was intended to help you; nothing more, nothing less._

Andrea remembers Ser Davos speaking about the Red Woman; about how he told her that her letter _must_ have come to her because she wanted something from her. Was it possible he was wrong?

_I knew your mother—_

She feels a dizziness wash over her and she slowly finds herself sitting on the edge of her bed, eyes closing for a moment to ground her.

She thinks about the reoccurring dream she had, the one warning her about Leo’s identity— _Melisandre in her childhood home, talking with her mother. Laughing with her._ That was true; something she can feel down to her very bones.

_She was a wonderful mother, one of the most in-tune women with nature that I’ve ever come to know. I wasn’t there when she passed and so I hope she’ll forgive me knowing that I tried to help you._

She swallows thickly, her fingers crinkling the outside of the letter as if she can picture holding onto her mother…one last time.

_I wish you well with the King of the North and know that if you ever need to find me, all you must do is look into the flames and ask._

There’s no signature, just the melted wax at the bottom. She finds herself staring at it for a long time and as much as she wants to do away with the letter, something _tugs_ at her from the inside…and she can’t. This might be the only connection with her family that she has left, albeit strange and distant.

Andrea turns and opens the drawer of the table next to her bed, her eyes glazing over the wooden bear figure as she slips the letter inside.

_If you ever need to find me, all you must do is look into the flames and ask._

One day, she just might.

\--

She resumes her spot in the kitchen, helping prepare and serve dinner as she’s always done. As much as this is about not wanting special treatment it also has everything to do with her not wanting things to change, regardless of everything being so different around her.

It almost doesn’t feel… _real_ being back here, serving ale and tending to Lady Sansa when Jon doesn’t pull her away. She doesn’t mind this, she never has; she feels the most at home here, tending to stew over the hearth, doing away with scraps and sipping remnants of sweet Summer wine from a dinner jug as the last few embers keeping the kitchen warm fade away.

_“You don’t have to keep working in the kitchen,”_ Jon tells her one night as he washes her hair during a bath.

_Andrea rolls her eyes but tilts her head back into his touch. “And what would you have me do?”_

_She can feel him shrug even though she’s not looking at him, “Anything you wish.”_

_A laugh curls in her chest, “Offering me the world, Jon Snow?”_

_“A little piece of Winterfell.”_

_She turns her head a little, resting her chin on her knees as she draws them into her chest. “I think I’m right where I need to be.”_

_Jon hums and she allows him to turn her, pulling her into his chest for a long kiss, a soft gasp leaving her lips as their bodies align perfectly—skin against skin, warmth blooming in her veins._

_“Not quite yet.” He teases and kisses her again._

Warmth thrums through her body and she sighs at the memory, her fingers trailing along her arms where Jon has touched her, leaving impressions long after his hands are gone.

Andrea settles in front of a window in the kitchen, her fingers brushing over the rim of the jug before she takes another slow sip. She doesn’t know what he expects from her, but it wouldn’t be right for her to take a position comparable to Lady Sansa. She hopes that he’ll eventually be comfortable with the fact that she doesn’t want something from him, that she’s happy as she is.

She hears the kitchen door open and close and doesn’t look up from her spot, “Kitchen’s all done for the night Rose, you can turn in.”

“So this is where all the Summer wine goes,” Lady Sansa says, startling her into a standing position. “I’ll have to let Jon know.” But she isn’t cross…she’s amused.

Andrea feels blush stain her cheeks and laughs a little. “Not all the time.” Then she clears her throat, “Did you need something Lady Sansa? I didn’t hear you request me.”

She shakes her head and moves towards the jug that’s sitting on the windowsill. “’Sansa’ please, after all this time…after everything, I think it makes sense for you to call me as such.”

Andrea lets her name sit heavily on her tongue and watches, entertainingly, as _Sansa_ picks up the jug of Summer wine and drinks from it.

“No one called for you, but I did want to talk if that’s alright.”

She nods and sits back down in front of the window, gazing out into the darkness of the night. The sun has set and the orange has disappeared from the sky; all that’s left is pinpricks of light from torches spread across Winterfell, reflecting against the sparkling snow. She can see, just beyond the wall, a stack of stones.

Leo’s grave marker…but she hasn’t found it in herself to visit him.

“I don’t say this very often,” Sansa says, pulling Andrea from her thoughts. “But I was wrong.”

She frowns and watches as the Lady of Winterfell takes another sip of wine from the jug before passing it back to her.

“I’ve found it hard to trust someone when it comes to love.” She pauses, as if this is hard for her to say. And maybe it is. While Sansa has always been known to be very outspoken, to make sure her opinions are heard—especially when it has to do with protecting her siblings or Winterfell itself, matters of the heart are never easy to discuss.

“But I was wrong,” She continues and their eyes find one another’s, “About you and…how you feel for Jon.”

Andrea swallows, her words wrapping themselves around her ribcage and lacing around her heart.  She doesn’t know if she can tell Sansa how much it means to hear her say that, especially since they’ve had so many conversations about her apprehensions of Andrea’s intentions for her brother. This means more than she can ever know and part of her wants to poke and prod and _ask_ her what’s changed her mind.

Instead, “Did Ayra put you up to this?” She teases.

Sansa smirks, looking out the window as well, “Not quite.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes and Andrea realizes that they’ve never been like this, just…sitting together, enjoying one another’s company, guard down, not expecting anything out of the other. They’ve reached a new place with one another…an understanding.

“Thank you.” She says to her, tipping the wine jug towards her as if offering her a sign of respect before taking a sip.

Andrea follows her gaze outside the window, her eyes landing on those stones again, capturing her attention. She can barely see them now with the sun gone but she knows they’re still there, within arm’s reach yet so very far away.

“I am truly sorry about your friend.” Sansa says, her voice careful as her hand rests upon Andrea’s shoulder and squeezes.

She nods, unsure of what else to say…no words seem like the right ones. It doesn’t matter, however, because Sansa doesn’t let the silence blanket them for long but at least lets her drink the rest of the wine.

“Have you given any thought to what you’ll do now? If you don’t mind me prying.”

Andrea smiles softly and sips the rest of the wine, setting the jug aside on the kitchen table. It’s here, in that moment, that she knows their relationship has changed even if it’s just a little. Since when would Sansa care or offer Andrea the choice to reject her inquiries?

“I’m unsure.” She says honestly, drawing her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. “I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you mean. This is my home, even before Jon; always has been.” She looks out the window again, her gaze unable to find the set of rocks she knows are there.

Maybe that’s a sign she should stop looking for them.

“Speaking of the King, what does he think of all this?”

Andrea sighs and shrugs her one shoulder, “Other than offering me a piece of Winterfell? I don’t know. What else can we do other than move forward?”

She can’t allow herself to get caught up in the past, whether it’s the Red Woman or Leo…or Lannisters in general. Holding the past in such high regard just blinds her decisions on how to form her future. She has choices to make, things to open herself up to and love to embrace. She’s spent so much of her life letting what happened to her family haunt her, as if survivor’s guilt was too much to bear…she can’t do that anymore. While she never wants to forget them, they can’t be reasons or excuses as to why she doesn’t move forward; she can’t be afraid to live because they never got to.

It takes her a moment to realize that Sansa is staring at her with a soft quirk to her lips as if a laugh wants to bubble up out of her stomach. She finds herself almost smiling in return, the action contagious.

“What?”

“He offered you a piece of Winterfell?” Her smile now is almost secretive; Andrea must be missing something. “What did you tell him?”

Andrea blinks, “I just…told him I was right where I needed to be.”

Sansa laughs and even though it’s not unkind, she’s starting to feel a little frustrated, “And how did he take it?”

“I’m sorry,” Andrea angles her body more towards Sansa now, “Am I missing something important?”

She takes her hand, “Just think about it, alright?” Squeezing her fingers before letting go, “Just think.”

Before Andrea can ask anything more of her, Sansa offers her that same smile again before taking her leave of the kitchen.

\--

Andrea gives it a lot of thought—honestly it sits on her mind frequently throughout the next few days but all she does is frustrate herself further. She knows she should just _end_ this by asking Jon what he meant by ‘a little piece of Winterfell’—a small part of her is worried that if she does it won’t mean anything because Sansa might be playing some sort of trick on her.

That is a very high possibility.

She sighs and glances to the ceiling in her room; she thinks she liked it better when her and Sansa _weren’t_ on good terms, at least things seemed to make more sense.

Andrea concentrates on the task at hand before she does something silly like cut her hand wide open as she cleans the cross-guard and fuller on her sword. It’s been a while since she fought and practiced her moves since…since Leo but she can’t allow herself to get rusty. Ser Davos has generously offered up his time to train her since she won’t allow Jon to do so, not yet at least, and she’s not going to waste a moment of the opportunity.

“There’ll be nothing left if you keep rubbin’ it.” She smiles softly and glances up at her trainer standing in the doorway. “Something have you troubled, m’lady?”

Andrea sets the cloth down and can’t help the soft laugh that leaves her lips, “Suppose you could say that. Not even sure how to tell you what it is if I’m being honest.”

He steps into the room and hums a little, “Try me.”

She shakes her head; she should just _forget_ this but now she has Ser Davos’ attention and he’s standing there, waiting, watching her with careful, kind eyes. Andrea sighs, “I’m just trying to figure out where I fit in all this. The more I try to piece together, the more confused I am.”

“Lady Andrea, it doesn’t take anyone reading into the flames to know how Jon cares for you.”

She quickly interrupts, feeling the slightest bit exasperated, “Then why do I feel like I have to solve some sort of riddle with him offering me a piece of Winterfell?”

Ser Davos stares at her a moment before the _same_ amused expression falls into the lines of his face. While she knows this man tends to smile easily and warmly towards people he cares for, this is different.

“ _That’s_ how he asked you?”

“I’m holding a sword.” She warns because she’s had about enough of this.

He puts his hands up as if in surrender but has the audacity to _laugh._ “I swear,” He crosses his arms over his chest, “one of the smartest men I’ve ever known yet completely oblivious when it comes to women.”

“Ask me what?” Andrea throws back to his previous statement.

And then…then it dawns on her.

“Oh gods.” She stands up, her sword clattering to the ground in a loud rush of metal.

“Aye, there we go.” Ser Davos mumbles as she rushes past him, out the door, not even bothering to grab her cloak. “He’s out by the stables!” He calls after her, a soft chuckling following her out.

\--

Andrea nearly slips down the steps that lead into the courtyard outside but that doesn’t break her stride and she’s a little out of breath as she enters the stables. Jon is at the end, tending to a few horses, turning to look at the sound of her entering.

“’Drea,” He says, moving to meet her in the middle. He’s already undoing the leathers on his chest, buckles falling loose as he wraps the cloak around her shoulders, “You trying to catch your death out here? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is you didn’t ask me to marry you.” It comes out in a rush between her teeth chattering, Jon’s hands working up and down her arms to warm her. They pause, however, when she gets the words out and a soft smile tilts the end of the one side of his mouth. The worry that was once there in his eyes is gone in an instant, replaced by sheer mischief.

She’s never wanted so much to hit him.

“Actually, I did, you just weren’t listening.”

Oh, this was _absurd—_ how could she know that’s what he meant? Did everyone somehow know what Jon meant expect for her? Was she truly the last to _know?_

“You are _such_ a _—”_ She doesn’t even know what she wants to say. She does, however, want to stop shaking because how can she be cross with him when he’s trying to keep her warm? Jon smiles and squeezes her shoulders, working his fingers down her arms before drawing her frozen fingertips into his hands.

“Careful,” He teases, though Andrea isn’t even sure how she was going to describe him at this point beyond the word ‘frustrating’. “Name-calling seems unfair; which one of us couldn’t figure out what the other was asking?”

He grins, and she has to squash the overwhelming urge to kiss him because no, she’s not rewarding him for confusing word-play and adorable antics.

“Ask me again so I can tell you ‘no’.” Part of her is teasing but…another part of her, the part that grounds her to reality in all the ways she knows she doesn’t deserve this, deserve _him,_ wants to ask Jon if he really knows what he’s getting in all of this.

Because it’s not much.

Jon draws her closer, tugging on the cloak until they’re breathing the same air. She won’t look up at him, can’t, her hands squeezing his own as his lips brush over her forehead.

“Jon,” She swallows and it pains her to say it but she _must;_ she has obligations to him as her King for him to consider what he’s doing. Marriage is one of the most powerful things for a King to have in his arsenal; he can use it as an advantage with someone who _matters._

“I am lowborn. I have…no family, or army, or dowry. I have nothing to offer you.”

He pulls back just a fraction so that his eyes meet her own. “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t love me?” She wishes he wasn’t trying to tease her about this; she’s serious and opens her mouth to say it but he shakes his head, speaking again, “You love me and therefore have _everything_ to offer me.”

Jon cups both sides of her face, a small smile making its way onto his lips. “I know what I’m asking of you and I know what decisions I make.”

Andrea holds his gaze for a long moment before nodding, slowly allowing that feeling that wants to swallow her whole encompass her as a lover would do. She has to trust him as she’s always done and she has to trust _herself_ and her feelings for him.

“Do you still wish for me to ask you again?”

She smiles a little, rolling her eyes, “You mean ask me _properly,_ for once?”

“Will you, Andrea Wintark, marry me?”

Andrea barley has time to say, “I’ve never wanted anything more” before he kisses her. Jon draws her close and keeps her there as their lips move together in perfect synchrony. When they pull back after a few moments, her skin is flushed and warm and she can’t remember ever being cold before this.

He tilts his head towards the black steed, one they’ve ridden many times together and she’s already shaking her head no before he has time to speak: “Come on, it’s the perfect weather for riding.”

She snorts out a soft laugh as he fastens his leathers across her chest to keep her warm. “It’s _snowing_. You’re definitely not dressed warm enough.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He tells her as they walk back to the horse he was feeding when she walked in, his hands brushing the side of him as he secures the saddle.

“I always do; afraid it’s now part of the job description as your wife.”

Jon pauses upon hearing the last word, his smile never leaving his lips as he turns to look at her and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. In typical Jon fashion, he uses that moment to distract her and _lifts_ her onto the horse; Andrea squeaking and grabbing onto the reigns.

The horse isn’t having it, huffing out air through his nose and pacing at the added weight.

“Shh,” Jon shushes the creature, petting his mane so he settles and she has half a mind to push him with her foot because shouldn’t _she_ be the one who’s comforted with that sneak-attack move? She’s too much afraid she’ll tumble off the horse though, so she doesn’t.

She _does_ however glare at him when his eyes find hers, an amused laugh tumbling from his mouth. Andrea moves to straddle the horse and Jon lifts himself up to position himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her and grabbing the reigns.

“Wait, I’m usually behind you.” Jon doesn’t move, instead he tugs on the reigns and the horse backs up and they move to leave the stable. “No, really, _Jon,_ I don’t like being first.” She doesn’t count the time she side-straddled the horse, the speed wasn’t fast and she wasn’t riding into anything _head first._

“Hey,” He nuzzles his nose into her neck, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as the horse trots out the gates of Winterfell. Snow tumbles down around them, easily landing on their bodies like soft, cool, blankets. “I’m here with you.”

Andrea turns a little to look at him, the horse pausing because his attention is on her instead of where they’re going. She stares at him a long moment, his words pressing into her skin, burrowing into her veins, holding her tighter than his arms ever could.

_I’m here with you._

She kisses him, soft and light before turning forwards and taking the reigns from him. She can feel Jon smiling even though she can’t see him, his hands falling to her waist to give her a small squeeze. She flutters the leather straps in her hands, her feet digging into the horse to move and he does, begins a slow trot that quickly turns into galloping.

The wind rushes past her, playing with her hair, probably hitting Jon in the face but he doesn’t say anything. She feels incredibly scared and yet _free_ at the same time as they ride through the woods and over small hills, the horse jumping over broken logs and fallen trees. A small laugh leaves her chest, exhilaration filling her up as her heart hammers against her ribcage, echoes in her ears.

Jon squeezes her around her waist and its then she realizes he’s laughing too, right along with her.

It’s something that she has to remember, that they’re here with one another.

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> This will have multiple chapters. Thanks for reading or at least giving it a chance! :)


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